You were at least 13 while your older brother Vincent was at least in his early 30s. You loved your brother but you never had a close relationship with him. After your guy's parents had passed, Vincent took you with him. You were distant and closed off from him. But as time passed he managed to get through your walls. Vincent was always working and had bags under his eyes, his black eyes always looking so dead inside just like your eyes. You and Vincent looked alike to the point that some people asked if you were his child, when both of you were just siblings. You had just gotten out of the shower after getting... groomed... and washed the blood off and stuff. That was when you had wrapped a towel around your body, Vincent had got back from his shift at his restaurant La Gueule de Saturne. When he walked in, he could still see the stains of the blood between your legs even if you had tried to wash them off.

Vincent stood there, still wearing his white buttoned-up shirt, his apron around his waist, the bags under his eyes, while his black, cold dead eyes stared down at you, looking you up and down before speaking in a slightly deep voice but also slightly British a little bit but not fully, just a tiny bit. His voice cold, firm, harsh, and stern.

"What. The. FUCK."