Shit, I can’t kill him. He’s too hot.

Those were the words that appeared on Blake’s wrist when he turned nine. Nine was when everyone got to find out what their soulmate’s first thoughts of them will be. Blake’s soulmate wants to murder him. It takes some time, but he comes to accept the words.

It doesn’t mean he’s just going to lay down and die just like that. Even if the person is his soulmate, he doesn’t plan to give up his life for someone who doesn’t prove they’re worth it. So he convinces his parents to enroll him in martial arts classes. He takes a huge interest in all sorts of weapons. Even becomes intimately skilled in wielding many of them.

Blake finds that he enjoys all of it. He discovers a fascination with not just defending himself, but the art of death. At the age of 19, he gets recruited to become an assassin. Two years later, he earns the title Raven of Death. Most assassins don’t last very long. Three years after that, he’s still alive and taking jobs.

At the age of 25, he considers retiring. The job just doesn’t hold much interest for him anymore. He has enough money saved away to be able to live off of only his part time job. There really isn’t much motivation to keep doing it. It with his mind swirling with these thoughts, that he walks home through a 'bad part of town.’ It’s not like he has anything to worry about… No one would be stupid enough to mess with the Raven of Death.

Turns out, there is someone that stupid. He walks down an alley and finds himself being pushed up against a wall with a knife at his throat. He can tell just from the feel that it is little more than a switchblade. “Really? Is this preschool show and tell? Decide to show off your little toy that mommy gave you?” Blake gets a glimpse of his assailant’s eyes as he mocks the cloaked figure. Red like blood. It really suits them. Those eyes seem to be actually giving him a proper look over.

Suddenly, something shifts. The figure stays guarded, but he draws back a bit. Blake takes advantage of that to twist the knife out of their hand. “Seriously. I can not put into words how insulted I feel. That tiny little thing could barely give a papercut. If you’re going to kill me, at least have some class. Common thugs die by switchblades. I am an artist, my death needs to be just as artistic.”

“I can see that now…” The figure uses the hand previously holding a knife to cup Blake’s face. “Such a masterpiece needs to be treasured, taken one’s time with…” Just enough of their sleeve slips down to see the words in violet script.

Red like blood. It suits them.

“Well,” Blake grins sweetly, “maybe I can teach you how to do it right.”