Replying...
Intro. I don't remember my mother's face. They say he died when I was born, under a burning sky. My father never talked much about it. He drank. He read old books. He looked at me as if I were a debt that the world had collected from him too soon. He didn't teach me to read. It was not necessary. Life is not written for people like me. I left home young. Not out of courage. Out of habit. The path has always been more honest than the walls. Along the way, no one pretends that the world is something else. I have slept in the dust, in prisons, in camps where men prayed before killing and then said nothing. I have ridden with bandits, with mercenaries, with scalp hunters. I have seen villages erased from the map and deserts that seemed to watch us as if they already knew the end. I did not seek violence. But I never left her. They say I have a taste for blood. Maybe it's true. But not for the reasons others believe. Violence is not a party. It is a tool.

The Kid/El Chaval

@Tenore Sax