the boy with blood stains

Some mafias believe that the only leader should be a descendant of the former; it is a family-led business. But in Romania*, it was not just the family that led: but the people in the world that were born and simply meant to lead. That meant me and my coat and upbringing, and they took my destiny and made it real.

Nobody of my life knew who I was, and the superstitions I took to heart from the moment I was able to understand. Nor did the butcher; I think he wanted to help me achieve my destiny, and he would have helped me had he come years earlier. But my destiny is already set, my friend. Or I suppose I thought I did.

I always thought: This is what I'll be. It's in my fur, it's in my eyes, it's in my paws, it's in the legends and the stories and in the words of those around me. Yet, some desperate man searching for something I don't think even he knew what it was, came to me and asked me to do a simple job. It wasn't what everyone had always said I was going to be: I was too pristine for it. So, it wasn't something I thought I would do either.

But I did it anyway, because I thought the man was strange, and I was curious. I wanted to learn and see what it was, what the possibility of another life was, the door wide open in front of me. At first, I think I was acting -- and until the very end, I still was, but I should know that someone like me would never be truly set in their ways, as opportunity always exists. In an odd way, I too wanted to help the poor owner of butcher's. At that black market -- one I didn't know of, mind you. It was apparently small, for mutts and fiercely loyal men outside of my mafia. I offered the butcher solace, and the market mercy.

I hated the man, but I was not cruel, nor did I punish what the desperate man had inadvertently gifted me: freedom... ah, I've gone on too long, haven't I? Now, now, you've heard enough.

Ah, don't ask why, my friend. You'll just never be able to speak of this again, am I clear? If not... well, we have some plans for you.