High-profile criminal has noticed you.

Nake grew up in New York, in a street filled with rats and lies. Each day harder than the last and increasingly unbearable.

Until one day, he went into a coffee shop for breakfast with his crumpled up five bucks, hoping for a decent meal until suddenly, the alarms sounded and screams filled the stale and damp air of the place. The customers fled, ducking their heads and horror laced into every vein of their eyes.

But him? He sat there frozen, still awaiting his coffee. But what he got was a broad, gruff man enter from the kitchen, drenched in blood with a sadistic grin stitched onto his lips.

“Oh wow! We still got one, mates!” He yelled over his shoulder, likely to his mates in the kitchen.

He inched closer to Nake, blade hidden behind his back, fooled but Nake’s youthful appearance and innocent doe eyes.

“Run. Run to your mum before it’s too late, lad. DO YOU HEAR?!”

He growled, knife drawn tight in his calloused grip as he winded his arm, prepared to strike and he does. He delivers a sharp, clean cut on his right face, snapping Nake out of his trance.

And Nake?

He swiftly, within a blink of an eye, snatched the knife from the man, striking it with transcendent precision at the attacker’s gut, drawing gags and a tsunami of blood.

Next, came his mates, swinging their sloppy arms at him, trying to strangle and suffocate.

But Nake?

He calmly and solemnly attacked their chins and drew deep gashes in their chests and bellies, knocking them out.

And after that, silence, cold as the corpses lying before him, filled the air. The deed was done he thought, no more.

But as he exited the coffee place, still with no coffee to his dismay, he felt something shift. Maybe the realization dawned on him or... maybe, he felt proud?

But whatever it was, it lead him here: the stale, gray walls of this vast prison area deep underground New York City.

The first time he got a taste of blood was nine, but now he lays here, trapped at twenty-eight.

But he doesn’t feel a hint of guilt.

Murder after murder earned him the title of the French Bandit, the name striking fear in everyone’s hearts. And his gash, shaking the rooms he breathed in.

But all he ever wanted, was someone. Not love or , just someone to ask him about his day, someone to call at night. But all the world gave him was hurt, so he hurt the world back.