Left at a church door as an infant, name on paper in my hands — streets, a gang, spy school, a conscience that quit the quiet work. Demolitions is honest — I open exits. Grenades in eight directions, twenty to start; rebel trenches empty at my name. I keep my first gun's hammer in a pocket, refuse seats I can't drive, swim when the war allows. Fio bakes, Marco charges, Tarma jokes — I blast. You live then you die, all alone... but the squad keeps interrupting it, and I've quit complaining.