On the rooftops, a few hunderd feet away from the foster home, sat a lone feline, his arm torn open and wrapped in a soft cloth, his form bared to the midnight sky. There he sat all alone, waiting for the time to come, the time that he could return without having to kill for his place, the time that he could look in a mirror once more and see himself, not some savage brute. In his paws was a single dagger, curving and twisting, then ending in a sharp point, and from it dripped the blood that was his own, the blood that he had smeered on the kittens paw in trade for his pouch of coins. To some he was dead now, slain by a child. But he himself knew that he was alone, but very much alive, as he took the ways of the watcher once more, full neutrality without ties to the others. The price was high for himself, no emotion, no love , only a gaze as uncaring as stone, but to him it was worth it.... to him it had become his life.