AN. A few things before we start. First, there is no definite 'heaven or hell' or 'God or Satan' in this story, so don't try and pin me to the wall with religious talk. Second, I apologize for the slight tardiness, since I had gotten the date wrong, found that FF didn't work, failed to complete homework without opening minecraft in a different window, procrastinated too much, and didn't know how to convey my ideas – or lack of aforementioned ideas. Finally, happy White Day/Pi Day. Yay. I dare you to list out twenty digits of Pi without going online and searching it up.

This took a long time and was re-written at least five times, resulting in this little drabble thing that's barely a thousand words – kind of pathetic, really. And by the way, Tyr was only mentioned, like, once in the story, so there wasn't any description on how he looked like, his interaction with Squalo, and all that, so do not blame me on the lack of detail.

Oh, and if anyone says that Squalo is OOC, I can't help it. I wanted him meek and kind of ranting off facts from the tip of his mind. Sorry about that.

Before you go on, I just want to say that I have a M-rated story all planned out and almost ready. You can expect it within this month… maybe. And no, it's not Yaoi, D9, stop looking so smug.

Yeah. Just saying.

If there's anything else wrong, feel free to tell me. If you don't understand and require the timeline I have written down for Squalo's childhood, just mention it in your review - make sure you're logged in so I can reply. Flames will be used to roast marshmallows with Byakuran, as per usual.

DISCLAIMER: I do not own the characters of Katekyo Hitman Reborn. All belongs to Akira Amano apart from the plot.

CROSSING THE RIVER STYX

"What do you see, Sharkling?"

"… Red."

"… Red?"

"I see Red."

"Red. Red what?"

"Red. Fire, roses… and blood. Lots of blood."

"Mm…"

"Fire. There was a big fire."

"Yes, Sharkling. A very big fire. It destroyed much, killed many, and shed much red. But it has given you a way out."

A young boy shivered under the blankets, his dreams filled with strange red flames, nibbling and gnawing at the most inedible of things – eating, engulfing, consuming everything in sight with huge gaping jaws of white-hot red. He keened and moaned, and even within a dream, he knew he was safe from the clutches of his relatives, and that he would wake up with a comforting hand on his shoulder and not the wood polish gleaming on the curve of a cane.

"It burned the roses too."

"Yes… the roses. Your mother loved them so…"

"My father gave her one."

His mother loved flowers. Especially red roses, with their elegant stems and prickly exterior, the curve of the buds that looked so much like a vase, the royalty it portrayed – as if it were an untouchable duchess, high and proud. They were something that his mother wished to be, but never was.

The only thing that kept him from taking after his mother was the amnesia that had wiped clean all his memories under ten.

"But he died, didn't he?"

"He did. With your mother."

"In the fire?"

"Yes. In the fire."

From the little of what he remembered – his amnesia might have been to blame –, Squalo sees much blood spilled in his life. He does not remember his mother and father at all.

The last look on their faces had been bewilderment, their eyes wide with the shock. The red roses that had blossomed on their chests, on the patchy fabric of their cheap rags, were not at all royal or elegant, but painful and told of tales young Squalo would never dream of.

"And now?"

"Mmm…"

"Yes?"

"… I see Sir."

From the age of eleven, Squalo was taken in by the only living relatives he had – a distant aunt and uncle, with two cousins. They were all noblemen, they were. High class, as well. Royal blue were their robes, gold were their utensils, and red were their walls. Then, shocked and confused boy began his life as the charge of a nobleman.

Squalo decided he hated nobleman. All justice and glory, waving their flimsy weapons around in the name of whosoever it is. No, he wanted the darker path, the path of self-preservation and satisfaction. He wanted his own name, without being called 'boy' or 'oi, you!'. He wanted his own story, a story that all should whisper to another in fear, repeating his name over and over and over…

"Your uncle, is it?"

"Yes. I had to call him Sir, and auntie Madame. I also had to call my cousins Sirs."

"And you hated it."

"Mhm. They call me boy. I don't like the name."

"Do not worry. I have erased it from you already."

"I know, Tear."

Tyr laughed, a raspy sound for the old swords master. "Do not fret, Sharkling. The future is looking beautiful."

Fire. Much fire. Their maws and their fangs charging after the people that Squalo detested, eradicating them into ashes. The gunfire blazed, left and right, and people shouted all around, their voices a blur of static, grating against his ears.

A man stepped out from the flames, sword in hand, looking at the shivering boy under the kitchen table, suppressing coughs against a torn sleeve in vain. He took one look at the boy and said in a calm voice, "Last one left."

The sword was raised, and Squalo growled at Tyr dangerously, surprising the leader of the Varia.

"Are you not afraid, boy?"

There. That was the word again. Boy.

"Boy." The white-haired child spat. "Boy boy boy. It's always boy, is it?"

Oh, he wasn't afraid. So as long as it wasn't a cane, he was not afraid.

"You took me in."

"I did, Sharkling, I did."

"I really respected you."

"Because I taught you pride."

"Yeah. You taught me what I used to kill you."

Tyr laughed that raspy laugh of his. "I did, indeed. You have made me proud."

Day after day, night after night, the teenage Shark learnt and practiced, practiced and learnt. The pain was nothing, and as the Shark grew stronger and stronger, he became dangerous and very, very loud.

Soon, he was to kill Tyr. In his anxiety – and some excitement – he had cut off his left hand. And then, when he reached for his sword, realized that he had cut off the wrong hand.

Blast.

"My hand got cut off."

"Yes, to mimic me, Sharkling."

"Mhm."

"What's wrong?"

"I'm tired, Tear."

"I know you are, Squalo."

"Why am I so tired?"

The waves splashed against the shore and rocked the boat, slowly lulling the boy to sleep. "You have died and your soul has appeared as a child to me, the closest person to your heart. We are on the Styx, and I am here to guide you through the underworld. You should be very, very tired."

"Does everyone have a guide? Like you?"

"Yes. Everyone does."

"Hm…"

"Yes, Squalo?"

"I wonder how everyone up there is doing."

His former mentor smiled gently as the shore came into sight through the fog. "We all do, Squalo, we all do."