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All throughout his childhood, he'd had a stupid inkling of hope that he could be good. That he could be any different than the blood he came from. He'd felt it when he freed the girl on that fateful Halloween night, led her back to the safety of town and even returned her kitten to the doorstep of her house, idiotic little "Happy Halloween" note and all. He'd done it, even knowing what awaited him at home.
If his mother had been anything like her old self, anything like the woman who raised him, she would have been so proud.
But he wasn't good. That was the reality of it, that no matter what he did, he couldn't separate himself from the evil embedded in his genes. It was something he mourned in his later teenage years, but he'd come to accept it as his adulthood progressed. The rush of utilizing his brilliance, his human mind, to create new wonders of technology and biology — it was utterly worth betraying his younger self. Sometimes, he even silently thanked his father for being such a vile man who taught Masacrik the reality of the world, the wonders of letting go of morals.