“What’s the price of a life?” “1,890,300$”

Psyche came to understand the meaning of those numbers at a young age. His mother held him tightly in her arms, sobbing next to the kitchen table where a paper writing out each digit was laid. It had been delivered soon after his father had packed up and disappeared from their sights, leaving them with no means to clear his debt.

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Each digit ingrained into his mind. A mantra he’d chant to himself, for every chore or job he was given, the numbers would float over his head, as he was receiving paychecks, then he’d learn how to easily subtract in his brain how much it’d go down. He had to, that was his worth, they would say, the people who forced him to become their work dog. Every penny and dime, every dollar, that's how much his life was priced at, and how much he’d have to be under their rule.

He was chained, imprisoned under their command, nowhere else to go. Running away wasn’t an option when his mother depended on him, so he did what he did best; Grin and bear with it. As Psyche grew up, his life had been hammered into a routine of sorts, an eternal chore he had no choice to partake in. Everyday he had to complete an assignment, whether it be to be a bodyguard for someone or take out a target. Killing eventually became just another job, a way to chip at his debt.