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I left Northern Ireland immediately after.

Whatever pathetic maggot I used to be had died the moment I murdered my father in that shell of a house. From then on, I wandered between different names and different lives. Under various identities, my occupations ranged from place to place; construction worker, bar bouncer, corporate bodyguard and ultimately a soldier for a private military company in Latin America.

It wasn't bad, but my main focus was on erasing the memories from my skull. No matter how much I tried, the burning sensation of blood on my fingers wouldn't go away. My father's disemboweled corpse sometimes haunted my dreams, but I did everything to keep myself distracted. I drowned myself in work to the point it became my entire life. At one point, my accent all but disappeared.

To keep myself healthy as the perfect soldier, I avoided public vices: drinking, smoking, fast food, and (most of the time) women. Of course, a mercenary public about their same-sex attractions rarely earned paychecks, so I remained secretive about the midnight trysts with foreign males in an alley. Otherwise I collectively leered at women.

I discovered the criminal underworld (or in this case, it discovered me) when a local drug lord from a nearby cartel required his nephew to be detained. Apparently, the little fucker wanted to snitch about the location of certain fields to Interpol, with the cartel boss offering the equivalent of $2,000,000 to the first mercenary able to capture him.

Five days and three bullet wounds later, I tossed the nephew--broken, bleeding and tightly bound--to his uncle's footpaws. The grin on my wolfish muzzle couldn't have been any wider in my entire life, especially when the lord let me shoot him dead right there. Once again, I felt the blood on my paws, but it seemed to be overtaken by a familiar sensation akin to...rapture. It seemed to consume the burning crimson embedded in my claws.

On top of the two million dollars though, the drug lord gave another offer: triple my payrate for a position as their hitman. Their previous one happened to be the one who let the snitch originally run. Wanting to no longer be haunted by my memories, I accepted the offer, and delved into the shadowy realm of sin and greed. The murky underworld for criminals. A true wolf roaming in the dark woods.

Years passed. Thanks to either Interpol, the U.S. government or familial backstabbing, I wandered between different mob bosses as their hitman. I laid low, never telling them the same identity twice for fear of capture, until I gained enough experience in the field to no longer solely rely on one crime organization. The skills and knowledge I learned made me, the Iron Phantom, a ghostly reaper for whoever fucked with the wrong client. At least, the wrong client able to pay.

And when came the Internet era, my services expanded on the Dark Web.

One day, I'd learn from some sources that the constables back home stopped searching for Dad's killer long ago. Markus Avallach had a miniscule wanted poster, but all the police in Ireland viewed my first murder as an act of retribution for the school bombing. However, I never planned to move back to Ireland, instead moving to some random American metropolis in the Midwest. For all I cared, this penthouse was my only home country. I plunged myself into the only reliable job I could have to survive in this world. Relationships be damned...

...until Cherry.

Walking into the apartment, I found the ocelot snuggling on the living room couch, his body covered by some beautiful afghan given to me as a gift by a Middle Eastern vizier. Its bright colors and contrasted Cherry's fur. As I stepped over to him, I noticed the ocelot's belongings--several clothes, a backpack and box of condoms--were haplessly tossed on the floor. Even his clothing from tonight were peeled on the coffee table.

Gently picking his naked body up in my arms, the smell of excessive soap and shampoo in his wet fur indicated he'd taken a long shower. I could already picture Cherry standing and staring into deep space beneath the showerhead, trying to forget what he saw under the hot water.

"Mmmm," he started to groan, "w-who..."

"It's me...You're okay." I smiled in the near darkness. "How are you feeling?"

He didn't reply, so I remained quiet while carrying him into the bedroom. He stayed silent as I pulled all my dirtied clothes and became as nude as him. However, Cherry did purr though when we slipped under the velvet covers. Wrapping my arms around him, the ocelot turned around to immediately melt his warm, slender form into my larger, muscular build.

That's when I felt wet tears stain my chestfur. His whimpers turned into sobs before the feline finally let everything out. I couldn't partake in it though. My pain would sink oceans.

"Shhh, it's alright, Charlie." Saying his real name felt strange on my tongue, but I didn't see the ocelot prostitute in this moment. I saw a young man who nearly saw death, like I had.

"Y-You killed them, didn't you?" he choked out, sniffling and looking up to me. "W-Why did they want to kill us?"

"We can talk about it tomorrow, but you are not safe out there. Whoever hired them wanted you dead." I didn't think it over what I said next, "You will stay here until I find the bastards. I promise I will keep you protected..." I almost added, "...unlike Thomas."

The ocelot's eyes widened. "B-But I don't have enough money--"

"Forget payment." I growled, then simmered my anger for now. In that moment, I discovered another ability I thought I had lost long ago. I couldn't piece it together at the time, but a part of me recognized it: an ability to love. "It became personal when they decided to hurt you. I...I care...deeply about you, alright?"

I laid on my back and looked at Cherry as he lay on my chest, his eyes teary for a different reason. He kissed my nose, and whispered thanks into my ear before we fell asleep together.