Marcus does his level best not to shiver when Dan's thumb strokes over the inside of his wrist. At this angle, his fingertips cover the gun barrel tattooed just there, the smaller circle within the larger, and he knows it's utterly meaningless to most people who see it, but for him it's a reminder. Not just of who he is, but of what he's done.

"I killed him," he answers, lifting his gaze from Dan's hand to his face instead. "I was seven when he killed my mum, hit her with a hammer right in front of me, and I knew I was next. I went for his hunting rifle, grabbed it down off the wall, and shot him through the throat as he tried to choke me to death."

Seven years old, his father's strong hands wrapped around his throat, wet with his father's blood, and Marcus had never felt freer in his entire young life. He doesn't regret it at all. Never will. He hopes that's clear in the ways he says it all.