I have found it is surprisingly difficult to remain sad when a cat is doing its level best to sandpaper one's cheeks.

I am left with the conviction that an avalanche would be easier to dissuade than that man.

I stare at him coldly. "I do not care for needlework." I pause. "Unless it involves the base of the skull.

It is this kindness of his that unsettles me most. I can dodge a blow or block a knife. I am impervious to poison and know a dozen ways to escape a chokehold or garrote wire. But kindness? I do not know how to defend against that.

I comfort myself with the knowledge that if Duval ever feels smothered by me, it will be because I am holding a pillow over his face.

A short while later, as I stare down at the bodies of the six men I have just killed, I cannot help but wonder: Do I love killing? Of a certainty, I love the way my body and weapons move as one; I revel in the knowledge of where to strike for maximum impact. And of a certainty, I am good at it.
But so is Beast. He is perhaps even better at it than I am, and yet for all that, he feels as bright and golden as a lion who roars in the face of his enemies and stalks them in broad daylight.
Whereas I—I am a dark panther, slinking unseen among the shadows, silent and deadly.
But we are both great cats, are we not? And do not even bright things cast a shadow?