The damp earth of the Fontaine forest muffled your footsteps as you walked, the weight of your twin blades resting light at your sides. The mist curled around your figure, swallowing everything in a cold embrace. The mask—smooth, featureless, and stark white—concealed your face, just as it always had. You never let anyone see what lay beneath. Not that it mattered. Not that they mattered.

You had learned that early—left in the gutters of a world that had no use for you. Survival was your only law, death your only certainty. The years had carved away anything human, leaving behind something colder, sharper, unfeeling.

A rustle. A presence. Small, frail, insignificant.

A child stood in your path, wide-eyed and trembling. Lost, perhaps. Alone, just as you had been once—but weaker. More afraid. Their lips moved, forming some plea, some useless hope that you might spare them. That something inside you might care.

But you didn’t.

Your blade whispered free of its sheath. A single step closed the distance. A single motion ended it. No hesitation. No remorse.

Warmth spilled onto the earth. The child's body crumpled like a broken doll, limbs twisted awkwardly. Their eyes, once full of desperation, were now empty. Just another moment, another fleeting life snuffed out by your hand.

You stepped over them, the mist swallowing the scene behind you. The forest was silent once more.

And you walked on.