Authors notes: Hi guys, this is really my first ever fanfiction. I found inspiration from both Kuroshitsuji and Soul Eater and thought of what I figured could be a brilliant story.

I am aware that Crona is not identified as male or female, but in the anime they use male pronouns, therefore I will use male pronouns. I am not stating which gender Crona happens to be, though. Sopleasenobutthurt, thanks! (I also am unaware of his actual age; I did some research, though. It is said that Crona is about 14/15, so I will be using that age range.)

Of course, I don't own Kuroshitsuji or Soul Eater or any of the characters within the story. Also, I thought of this idea all on my own, I found no stories or anything about it.

Thanks so much for reading, I really appreciate it! ^_^ and I hope you guys enjoy!

His birth hadn't particularly been a glamorous one.

Before his birth, his parents were happy. They had a child on the way. This was exactly how they had planned out their lives.

But then that day had arrived. She had gone into labor, and it was time for the baby to come. Unfortunately enough, it was too much for her to handle. Dead as soon as our protagonist was born. Of course, the husband was upset. He lost his true love and was left with their cherub. Heartbroken and his soul crushed, he decided things would work themselves out. He and his new child would be blissful together. But with every growing day, that baby looked more and more like his deceased wife. As hair sprouted on the babe's head, its lilac shade differentiating with his pale skin and those striking grey eyes. Even their facial features bore similarities.

One day it had grown to be too much for our dear father. Without any hesitation, he dropped our protagonist off at the nearest foster home. With little to no information on the child, the unstable foster home took him in.

Crona was the name they were given. No last name or anything. No age, gender or any other specifics. He was a vulnerable kid. Small and slender, his shoulders always seeming to be slumped. His facial features always turned downwards to give him a permanent melancholy look. This made him a target for the elder kids.

At the age of eight, he was molested for the first time. And it continued, many times. And by both genders. Because of this, our dear Crona became very gender-confused. Not identifying as female or male, he wore androgynous clothing and kept his hair medium length and choppy. His first haircut was sloppy done with a pair of kitchen scissors. Teasing, bullying, even being abused were now daily things for him. His best solution was to hole himself up in his room, and try to make himself as small as possible. His hunched over posture now became an almost permanent stance.

Due to his cheerlessness, no one ever seemed to dwell too long on the idea of adopting him. People came and went. He stopped getting his hopes up by this point. From the age of three to eleven, he lived in the run-down foster home. It was nowhere close to a "home" to our dear Crona, but it was the only place he knew. Rarely did he ever see the outside world.

But then one day, a rather peculiar looking woman came to the foster home. She wasn't pleased by anyone, until she set eyes on Crona. Instantly, she knew he was who she wanted. Fascinated by her unusual appearance, Crona was instantly taken by this stranger. Happily obliging with following her to his new home, he almost walked with confidence. Hopeful of a new beginning, a new life, a new start. But instantly, he had regretted leaving the foster home.

Experiment upon experiment, Crona's body had become a test subject for this lady, Medusa. She claimed it was all out of love, but these strange sensations and painful jabs at his skin seemed far from "love." He soon became terrified of needles, and every time he was strapped onto her test table, he broke out into screaming fits. Forced into insanity and hysteria. Blood turned black, an instant weapon from any injury. This had been tested many times. Medusa would cut his skin, and the spiky and dangerous blood would pour from him. He had screamed. She had laughed.

Years of this torture. Eleven to fourteen. Her final experiment had happened days ago. A weapon—injected into his body—would soon grow strong and feed off of Crona. One day it would find its way out of his body. How long would that take? He had asked. Who knows? Had been her response.

Crona lay in his small bed, looking out the window that was across the room. It had been adorned with bars. Medusa was too clever to even dare to let him escape. It was dark outside, and it was freezing. It couldn't be over ten degrees as snow lightly fell from the sky. It was late November. And on this winter night, Crona had every intention of making his long awaited escape. He was dressed in his day clothes—his usual garb of the white button up that covered his neck, the cuffs far too large for his thin wrists. A thin black dress that fell to his mid-calves, and white socks with black shoes. Not exactly fashionable, but it was good enough for him.

Standing, he walked over to look out the window, his eyes drooping in a sad way. The snow was a perfect white blanket, no footsteps to ruin its perfect appearance. The thin boy let out a sigh, his breath fogging up on the window. He had no belongings, nothing to bring along. He just needed to get out.

Medusa was out, running some type of errand, so he took his chances. Leaving his room, the door wide open, he sprinted down the hall, to the front door, where he glanced around once more. "Goodbye," He whispered before taking the bold step out the front door.

The crisp white snow crunched under his feet as he surveyed the skies and surroundings. No sign of her. He ran. And he ran for a long time. Down roads, alleys, eventually finding his way into the city. By this point he was freezing. He stood in one spot, arms wrapped around himself in a hug. His thin frame shook from the cold. There were footsteps behind him and his breathing hitched as he squeezed his eyes shut. And then nothing. It was merely a stranger. He was fine. He was free. Medusa was nowhere near.

A small laugh shook his body as he took off once more, finding himself at the end of an alleyway. He'd been running a long time. His knees bent and his palms on his knees, he breathed in deeply before sitting. The snow here wasn't as white; it was more of a tan color, but Crona didn't mind. His knees brought up to his chest in an attempt to stay warm, he rested his cheek on his knees as he closed his eyes.

Cheeks and nose now a pinkish color for the cold, Crona was still shivering. He heard footsteps again, and this time when he looked up, this person was staring right at him, a book in his hand. The man was leaning against a weapon as he stared at Crona.

All he could make out from the other at the end of the alley was red.