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[slicing]

[Arm held over an empty glass, he slides the blade across his skin and watches the blood slowly pour, looking up to arch his brows and announce,] It's ten bucks a drop.

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[hailjan]

[His brows pinch. He doesn't remember, not immediately.]

...Ten, maybe.

[Almost twenty years ago.]

[slicing]

Old enough to remember.

[hailjan]

[He's silent for a moment, considering just what it is he 'remembers.']

All of my memories are of watching her die. It was slow. A little more each time.

[slicing]

[He wouldn't be the first man with a tragic childhood. Vicious stories follow those who have crossed paths with Hyperion, whether they're willing to share them or not.]

Is that why you do this?

[hailjan]

I don't know.

[He was going to die the same way as his mother. He wasn't protecting himself. He wasn't really protecting anyone else either.]

[slicing]

No one would blame you. [He wouldn't. People had lousier reasons to be horrid to one another. And here this man was, offering him life.]

[hailjan]

[He looks down at his feet. He would blame himself.]

No.

[slicing]

[He can't help but smile, small and... empathetic, perhaps. He doesn't feel sorry for the other man, even though he should. It's a different sentiment, one he doesn't quite care enough to identify.]

I'll take good care of these.

[hailjan]

Good.

[He tugs at his jacket nervously.]

[slicing]

[That's all he can do.]

Hyperion. That's my name.

[hailjan]

[In a way, Sotiro hadn't really wanted to know. And he ducks his head down.]

...Sotiro.

[slicing]

Pleasure, Sotiro. [A brief nod.] Take care of yourself, yeah?

[hailjan]

[Unlikely, but it's the thought that counts.]