It was a bad habit, he knows it. Cutting open his skin, trying to get rid of those damned tattoos that once defined who he was. There should be places in the City that could get rid of this permanently, he thinks, but he didn't want to do it that way. He had to remove it by his own hands, to atone for his sins.

Biting down on the rope, a pained whimper came out. The dagger, sharp as sharp as a razor, cut into his skin. Drops of blood fell onto the wooden planks, dying it red. He wonders, if he had never joined that syndicate, would he stll be living with her?

Not that it matters, he's the captain's harpoon, here to kill anything as long as she commands. He didn't trust his instincts anymore, it only brought him pain.

After a few more cuts, Heathcliff looks down at his own biceps, staring at the mutilated skin. The tattoos are still visible, even after all of that. At least he feels a tad bit better about himself now. His train of thoughts were interrupted by the door to his room opening, light seeped into the dark room, almost blinding him.

"... Who?" He muttered, setting down his dagger.