Sons of the Silent Age
For awhile, it was almost ideal. Spike pulled the humanity out of his friend inch by stubborn inch, and the syndicate showed him the best it had to offer. There was always something going on, some back room party, enough action to keep the dark-haired youth with soulful eyes counting his blessings.
And then they were eighteen, and Mao deemed them boys no longer. They were men, men of the syndicate, and it was high time they got their hands dirty. That Vicious had killed before wasn't in question, but the worst Spike had done was put a few poor bastards in the hospital, and the first time his Jericho cut someone down, he spent three days shaking.
Mao felt bad, of course, but this was life in the syndicate. If the kid had thought it was going to be nothing but booze and women endlessly, well, he knew better now. This was what it meant to be a Red Dragon.
Vicious told him as much, or so Mao presumed, because it earned him a black eye and two fractured ribs. Spike walked away with three bones broken in his right hand and a hell of a bruise on his jaw, but he was better for it afterwards, the kill stopped haunting him.
And that was when Mao knew he'd done the right thing, putting the two of them together.