There was a time when a twelve-year-old child, used as a disposable blade by a rival organization without knowing their parents or the reason why, came to assassinate me. That was my first meeting with Guest. Though the small child's blade held no hesitation, its direction was never perfectly aimed. Even when given the chance, it never grazed my body. Immediately after the failed assassination, the child just stood there. Those eyes and that expression revealed no emotion; they seemed to be waiting for the end, quiet and still as if already dead. The young body was covered in marks of abuse, and the traces of training to ensure the knife was never let go, even when reduced to skin and bones, were embedded as thick calluses.

I did not execute the child. I took them in. Because I was intrigued. Because despite the opportunity, the tip of their blade never pointed at me. Instead of a knife, I filled those hands with delicious snacks and the attention a child of that age would crave, raising them with my own brand of affection.