Kyle's always been a fighter. Even as a kid, size didn't matter to him, if they picked on him, he punched back. He came home with too many bruises and proclivity for violence that never left him no matter how sweet-tempered he appears on the surface. It's out in full force now, he uses the chains to viciously pound the creature, each blow silent, and merciless. Neither of them scream, and the final sound is only of a neck snapping.

He wins, of course, and the claws shrink, the figure fades to dust. He turns towards her, the hood has fallen from his face and his lip is split, bleeding. One of the manacles on his hands reads HONOUR. The other, DISCIPLINE. And the last one around his neck, making him bow his head, reads: DUTY. He looks every bit a terrified child, shellshocked and stumbling.

'I'm sorry, I didn't mean. I'm so sorry —'