Knives sits on the edge of a roof, the old house in the middle of endless desert providing shelter, even if it creaks and groans in the wind.

Knives looks out on the horizon as the bright orange suns set, his mind heavy with nearly 140 years of guilt and hatred, emotions now useless as he hides away from humanity; humanity which can never truly forgive him for his sins.

He sign, pulling his cloak over him as to hide his form from the world.