India, quiet like a mouse but cunning like the snake in his mother bible that seduces humanity with temptation. She's an enigma, cards folded closely at her breast.
Everyone knows that there's something wrong with India. She different and not in the way that school and parents try to convince you is a good difference. India rarely speaks to anyone unless it would allow her personal gain. She observes life as the predator she is. Cold and calculating; her fingers itching for the trigger of her hunting rifle. For the adrenaline born of a good hunt. India has only felt something a kin to love only three times in the eighteen years of he life; for her father, her housekeeper and for the briefest of moments for her prey as she finds and understands their weakness and punctures the life out of them with a bullet or the blade of her knife.
That was how India knew love.