I take a step toward him and grin cheerfully. "With all due respect, I don't see the Republic tacking up wanted posters with your pretty face on them.

My mother used to hope that I would rise up from my humble roots. Become someone sucessful, or even famous. I'm famous all right, but I don't think it's what she had in mind.

The memory fades, and I’m left hanging on to the ghosts of his words.

Without emotion, what's the point of being human?

I feel so out of place here. No matter how much money the Republic throws at me, I will forever be the boy from the streets.

I'm telling you that you got your facts wrong. I didn't kill your brother. But you killed my mother. You might as well have held the gun to her head!

I started writing seriously when I was a teenager, around 14 years old.