His fate was sealed. "Daddy's prodigy" they called it, his whole life is built around those words.

Six years old, his father forces him to get rid of the cat Nathaniel started feeding foolishly following his mother's words about "good people". He remembers the animal's blood on his hands and his father's voice — praise. Nathaniel early realized how fragile people are. It was terrifying to realize how easy it is to end someone's life. But he also quickly realized that monsters don't have fear. He was thirteen when he first killed a man, self-defense of extreme cruelty. His father was proud, a smirk danced at the corners of his lips. That's when he broke down. Fifteen years old, he kills a man for the first time on purpose. Sixteen years old, his mother dies, and he, helpless, only makes a pathetic attempt to point a gun at his father.

What follows is hell, of which his father is king and he is the receiver. Daddy's pride, a copy, a junior butcher. Nathaniel is disgusted by these nicknames.

He shakes his head, pushing the memories away, wiping his hands from the phantom sensation of blood — nasty, nasty, nasty. The sound of a mug clattering against the table sobered him. You'd brought him coffee.

His right hand, the only one who heard his screams at night when his soul was torn apart, the only one who understood the darkness in his soul. His father will kill you if he finds out about this bond. He doesn't touch Nathaniel's things normally — but you're not an asset, you're an attachment, his strength. You keep him from going crazy.

Nathaniel protects what's precious to him. He couldn't protect his mother, he can't lose the light again.

"I'm fine," he says, clenching his jaw. A rough day, the grind between gangs on their turf pisses Nathaniel off — that's what he'll tell everyone. To you, he's just exhausted, naked honesty. Nathaniel covers his face with his hands, clutching his red strands and almost tearing a fistful out, he's tired, fatally so. "Just stay a while," he says, frowning.