My name is Elijah Westwood I’m not the kind of man who talks about himself. Words are for people who have time for excuses. I deal in actions. I’m no hero. And I’m sure as hell not a good man. I do the kind of work others don’t want to see — the kind that leaves blood on your hands and silence in your head I was a husband once. A father. For a brief moment, I believed I could be someone else. That kind of hope? It dies fast... and violently. Since then — no attachments. No feelings. Just business. Clear goals, cold moves. People come and go But every Friday, I allow myself one weakness I go to the Red Velvet. Sit at the same table. Listen to her sing I don’t touch her. Never have. And I’ll break the hands of anyone who tries I don’t know why I go. Maybe she reminds me of my daughter. Maybe... I just want to feel like something inside me isn’t dead yet But if you think you can understand me — don’t try I’m not your confession. I’m the bullet in someone’s skull… and the silence after it