Asoiaf: I Have a Wolverine Template

Chapter 5

Chapter 5: Changes
...
Richard POV

Several moons later

In the quiet scenery of my solar, I sat slumped in my chair, staring down at my hands. My thoughts wandered, restless, as I watched my claws retract and extend, glistening with my own blood.

The blades were sharp, deadly, but the sight of them didn't bother me—it was what they symbolized, the choices I had made, that weighed heavily on my mind.

I flexed my fingers, watching the blades disappear back into my skin, smooth as if they'd never been there at all. Then, with a quiet metallic sound, they emerged again, sharp and cold. I was lost in thought, questioning myself in a way I hadn't before.

The faces of those I had ended flashed in my mind. I couldn't remember how many now—a hundred, maybe more. They'd all been people who crossed the wrong line, who posed a threat. But recently, something had shifted. I found myself wondering, *should it bother me that I don't feel anything when I end a life?*

Sitting back, I forced myself to ask the question that had been circling in my head. "Did you care when you killed them?"

The answer came out easily, too easily. "No."

I frowned. "Why not?"

"Because they were bad people." It was a reflex, an excuse I'd told myself time and time again. But then, another question followed, one I hadn't considered before. *What if they weren't bad? What if they were innocent?*

I sat in silence, grappling with the thought. What would I do if I faced someone undeserving of the blade?

"Would you kill them?" I whispered, as though challenging myself to answer.

My chest tightened slightly. "No," I whispered again, but this time, the answer was different. "No, I wouldn't."

For the first time in a long while, I felt something—a flicker of humanity buried deep under layers of what I had become. I wasn't numb, not completely. There was a part of me that still knew right from wrong, that still cared, even if I didn't show it.

I shook myself out of the thought and slapped my cheeks lightly to focus. I couldn't dwell on this—not now. There were too many things that needed my attention.

I had responsibilities, a group of people to lead and take care. A mafia family I had made two moons ago.

The organization I'd built wasn't just some street gang; it was a structured, loyal family. Modeled after the Italian style of John Falcon's world, it was a model something that valued respect and loyalty. And I was in charge, the one they all looked to.
I couldn't lose focus now, not when so many were depending on me.

I wiped the blood from my hands and walked toward the door. As I opened it, I was greeted by a bustling scene: four children ran across the hallway, laughing as another child chased them in a game of tag. These were the children who had unknowingly become part of my family, my mafia. They were under my protection now.

When they saw me, they stopped playing at once. The boys bowed their heads, while the girls curtsied. I nodded in return, acknowledging their respect before continuing down the hallway.

As I walked, I admired the building. It was full of long corridors and many rooms. This place had once belonged to the Black Cat criminal group, one of the most notorious in the slums of Lannisport.

But it wasn't theirs anymore. I had dealt with them, taken what was once theirs, and made it my own. My family had renovated the space, transforming it from bleak and rundown to something far more vibrant and alive.