He was quiet as a child. No one really commented on it. It was normal. People tried not to meddle in anyone else's business. That was why they also never commented on his injuries. They chose not to see it. They chose to ignore the way he never let any adult touch him. They chose to ignore the way he completely froze when his guardian came anywhere near him.
There was one incident that stuck out in their minds as odd; he was found in heated discussion with the arms-dealer. He'd tried to purchase a pistol, and had been denied because he was too young, though he'd somehow come up with enough double dollars.
They heard the shouting that night. They heard the beating being administered, and realized that he'd not had the money after all; he'd stolen it from his guardian. They heard, and did nothing. It wasn't their business. They heard the silence. They prayed to God the boy wasn't dead.
As morning dawned, a single gunshot pierced the air.
The boy emerged, gun in hand, staring blankly ahead, not acknowledging anything around him. Cool as a cucumber, even after administering a kill shot to the man who'd raised him since his parents' early demise.
He was seven years old.
When he killed his guardian, he hoped it would make his life easier. It was certainly easy enough to pull the trigger.
He had no idea for the Hell he'd signed himself up for.