"He was raised by Death, but somehow became better at surviving than at becoming cruel."
STORY LEADING TO THE RP.
He was five years old when the mafia took him - before that, he belonged to a family that had very little.
They lived in a cramped flat in one of Edinburgh's poorer neighborhoods, the kind of place where the walls were thin, the heating unreliable, and everyone knew which neighbors were behind on their rent. His mother worked whenever she could find work, but there was never enough money. His father had been gone for as long as the boy could remember. Whether he had left, died, or simply decided his family was no longer his problem was something the boy never learned.
His mother tried. He remembered that much.
He remembered her hands. Her voice. The way she would pull him close when the shouting from the neighbors became too loud. But she was exhausted all the time.
Eventually, she borrowed money.
Then she borrowed more.
The people she borrowed from were not the sort of people who accepted excuses when the money wasn’t returned.
At first, they came to the flat.
They knocked. They waited. They reminded her what she owed. But then they started threatening her.
The boy didn’t understand most of it. He only knew that his mother became frightened whenever certain men appeared at the door.
One evening, one of them offered her a solution.
There was…
work available for children.
Nothing dangerous, they said. A wealthy family needed help. The boy would be fed. He would have somewhere to sleep. He would be looked after.
And his mother would receive money.
Enough money to pay what she owed.
Enough to keep them from coming back.
She refused at first, but the threats became worse. Eventually, desperation won - she told herself it would only be temporary.
A few weeks. Perhaps a few months. He would come home.
He was
five. He believed her.
He remembers being given a new coat. He remembers his mother fixing his collar. He remembers being told to behave.
He remembers asking when she would come to get him.
And he remembers her saying:
“Soon.”
That was the last time he saw her.
The people who took him were not the mafia themselves. They were part of a network that moved children, illegal workers, stolen goods, and information through the Kingdom. Children were easy to move. They attracted less suspicion than adults, especially when they were told to keep quiet.
The boy was taken to London.
He was told not to tell anyone where he came from. When he cried, he was threatened. When he asked for his mother, he was told she had abandoned him.
Eventually, he stopped asking.
The people moving him had intended to sell him for prostitution, but instead, someone from the criminal organization noticed him.
Not because he was strong… Not because he was obedient.
Because he was watching.
While the other children cried or fought or begged, he sat quietly and watched the adults around him.
He noticed which one carried a weapon. Who was afraid of whom. Which door the guards never left unattended.
He remembered faces.
He remembered voices.
He remembered
everything.
The man watching him became interested.
The boy was five years old. Small. Silent. And already learning how to survive.
The organization paid for him. He never knew how much, he never knew who had agreed to the transaction, he never knew whether his mother had ever tried to find him… To him, there was no distinction between being sold and being recruited.
Someone had taken him, someone else had bought him.
And that was how the mafia became his home.
At first, he was nothing more than a runner. He carried messages between rooms, delivered packages, watched entrances, and learned which streets belonged to whom. He was taught to recognize cars before he learned to read their license plates. He memorized routes by landmarks rather than street names.
He never went to school. Nobody cared whether he could read or write. They cared whether he could remember instructions.
And he could.
He remembered everything.
The organization became his entire world. Its buildings were his home. Its members were the adults who raised him. Its rules became the closest thing he had to an education.
It was not an entirely loveless childhood, and that was perhaps the cruelest part.
There were people there who cared about him.
Not safely. Not normally. Not in a way that made the place good.
But genuinely.
Someone taught him how to shave when the first dark hairs appeared on his face. Someone showed him how to sew a torn sleeve instead of throwing the shirt away. Someone sat beside his bed when he had a fever. Someone taught him how to cook eggs. Someone slapped him when he mouthed off and later left food outside his door because they knew he hadn’t eaten.
There were men who would have killed for him. There were men who eventually did.
And there were men who would have killed him without hesitation if they had been ordered to.
He learned very young that these things could coexist.
Love did not make someone safe.
Protection did not mean loyalty.
And affection did not cancel an order.
He never called anyone family, but there were people who came close.
One of them was an older member who became his closest thing to a father. He taught him patience, how to fight, how to recognize when somebody was about to attack.
Most importantly, he taught him how to use a knife.
The boy was good immediately.
Too good. His first successful throw had been almost accidental. After that, it became obvious that he possessed something nobody could teach.
He understood distance instinctively.
He could look at a room and know how far the table was from the wall. He could judge angles without thinking about them. He understood how much force a throw required. He could throw from awkward positions, while moving, without losing accuracy.
His hands seemed to know where things would land before his mind did.
Knives became his specialty - guns came later.
The organization discovered that he had another remarkable ability: he could remain completely still.
He had spent his childhood hiding. He could wait without moving for extraordinary lengths of time. He noticed tiny changes in his surroundings. He could watch a building for hours and remember every person who entered it.
His size, once considered a weakness, became an advantage.
He was never a large man. He built muscle because he needed it, not because he cared about his physique. His body became lean, hard, and functional. His legs became powerful from running and climbing. His hands and forearms became strong from years of weapons training. He learned to move quickly rather than overpower people.
In a direct fight, especially against a much larger opponent, he was not unbeatable.
He didn’t need to be.
He was faster. He was more difficult to catch. And if he had a knife in his hand, the difference between his size and someone else’s stopped mattering quite so much.
By his late teens, he was being given serious work.
By his twenties, he had become one of the organization’s most reliable killers.
By his thirties, he was the best sniper they had.
People began talking about him. Not openly… Not with admiration. With the cautious respect reserved for things that could kill you from somewhere you couldn’t see.
He never became arrogant about it, he didn’t enjoy the reputation.
He simply did what he had been taught to do.
Someone gave him an objective - he completed it.
Someone gave him a weapon - he used it.
Someone told him where to stand - he stood there.
For thirty years, he belonged to someone else.
Then, that changed.
The organization became involved in a dispute. The details were never explained to him - they rarely did. He was a weapon, not someone who needed to understand the politics surrounding its use.
But this time the conflict became serious enough that the other organization demanded compensation.
They wanted
him.
Their best sniper. Their most capable marksman. The man who could disappear into a city and put a bullet through someone before they ever knew they were being watched.
The demand was simple: give him to them, and the conflict ends.
The organization considered the offer and they realized something crucial: they could not afford to give him away.
He knew too much. He knew people, locations, habits, procedures, safe houses, weaknesses. More importantly, they had spent thirty years
creating him.
So they made their decision.
They would
pretend to surrender him.
Then they would make sure he never arrived alive.
They gave him an assignment - a difficult one, but not unusual enough to make him suspicious at first. He was given a location, a target, a position, he was told where to go, where to wait.
He was told that backup would arrive.
It didn’t.
At first, he assumed something had gone wrong, but then he noticed the details. The position was too exposed, the information didn’t match what he was seeing, the escape route he had been given was blocked. There were too many men. Too much preparation. Too much certainty in the way the enemy moved.
And suddenly, while lying perfectly still and watching the situation unfold through his scope, he understood.
This was not a mission.
It was an execution.
His own people had sent him there to die.
For the first time in his life, he stopped thinking about how to complete an assignment and started thinking about how to survive.
He did survive.
Barely.
He used everything he had learned over thirty years against the people who had taught him, and when he finally escaped, he did not go back.
He went nowhere.
He simply disappeared.
The organization realized almost immediately that he was alive.
They sent people after him. Not strangers… People he knew. Men he’d eaten with. Men he’d worked beside. Men whose footsteps he could recognize without seeing them.
Some had protected him.
Some had taught him.
Some had once called him brother.
Now they had orders:
Find him.
Kill him.
He killed
them.
It was not the first time he had killed people, but it was the first time killing felt entirely different. These were not targets, these were people from his life. People whose names he remembered. Faces he could still see when he closed his eyes.
He did not allow himself to think about it for long. Thinking had never kept him alive.
Moving did.
So he moved.
And London swallowed him.
In theory, he could have left the country, but in reality, he had nowhere to go.
He had no education. No qualifications. No normal employment history. He could barely read and could not properly write. He had no family he could safely contact, no legitimate identity he completely trusted, and no understanding of how ordinary life worked.
He knew how to dismantle a gun in darkness, but he did not know how to fill out a job application.
He could navigate half of London without a map because he remembered streets visually, but he could not always read their names.
He knew how to identify a man following him from three blocks away. He did not know how to explain himself to the police.
And he did not trust the police anyway. The organization had spent thirty years teaching him that authorities were simply another kind of danger.
So he stayed.
London was familiar. Familiar meant survivable.
He changed where he slept. He moved frequently. Sometimes he rented rooms under false names. Sometimes he slept somewhere nobody would look twice.
He became very good at disappearing into ordinary life.
He learned which pubs asked questions and which didn’t. Which neighborhoods were dangerous at night and which were dangerous during the day.
He learned to sleep lightly. He never sat with his back to a door. He noticed reflections in windows. He counted exits automatically. He memorized footsteps. He kept a knife close.
Sometimes he woke from dreams he couldn’t remember with his hand already wrapped around it.
He did not make close friends.
Not because he was incapable of caring, but because caring had always been dangerous. In the organization, there had been bonds. Strong ones, sometimes. Protective ones. But there had never been true safety.
Anyone could be ordered to betray anyone.
Anyone could disappear.
Anyone could become a target.
He learned not to need people.
Now, months after his escape, he lives somewhere and nowhere in London. He has very little: a few clothes, a handful of possessions, money hidden in several places, a knife he trusts.
And the knowledge that somewhere in the city, people are still looking for him.
SEXY STUFF.
Position
(preferred position)
bottom ──── power bottom ──── switch ──── sub top ──── top
Experience
(number of partners)
virgin ──── one partner ──── a few ──── many ──── countless
Confidence
(in what he's doing in bed)
insecure ──── learning ──── ok ──── confident ──── master
Spiciness
(preferred type of sex)
vanilla ──── spiced ──── adventurous ──── kinky ──── extreme
