When Jean thought of death, he never thought he'd be alone, on a rooftop, bleeding out. But, as he held his hand up to his face, the crimson liquid coaxing his palm, he knew this was the end. This was how his short life would draw to a close, shot by some Marleyean soldier that left him to bleed out all on his own.

He'd like to say it was an excellent life–that he lived how he wanted to and made those burnt bones proud of the man he became. But, he feared that wasn't true.