Boundaries. Such things did not exist in the minds of people like Mello. Not that they could ever hold him; he'd push, break, bulldoze them out of shape, until they were too weak to stand in his way. Pushing even his own limits until they wavered, until he was long past breaking point. Gambling everything just to win—which he always did, mind you. Mello would always do everything to win; it was either succeed or die trying.
And I, being the faithful servant, would die with him.
Mello wasn't fire, wasn't ice, contrary to popular belief. He was Mello. A package of strength, pure willpower, cruelty—and grace.
It's absurd how graceful he is. He's sleek, almost elegant or tranquil, like a crystal lake on a calm day. You'd have thought, with the way that I described him, that he'd be some monolith of a man. Perhaps this is just another façade, a pokerface just to help him win?
Yes, Mello lived to win.
And I lived to aid him.