I never knew I had the power to hurt him, only that he possessed the power to hurt me.

Maybe I was just one of those people who couldn't rest easy unless things went catastrophically wrong.

Love can make us do dreadful things.

I admired Stalkers style. He was incredibly fast using two small blades strapped to the backs of his hands. Slash slash slash. Fighting him you wouldn’t die of one great wound but instead bleed out slowly surprised to find yourself weak and dying after a thousand cuts.

He went in, lean and deadly, and ended the creature with a lightning-fast spike of his blade. It shrieked, likely altering the rest. The death call carried like a mournful song.

I’m sick of asking questions everyone else already knows the answers to.

In the enclave, the strong and the physically perfect survived, but if you were strong, you protected the weak until they had an opportunity to grow into their own power.