Cassandra listened as Mikasa spoke. Hers was not an easy story to tell. The other girl's words were soft and her body language sheltered. As she continued, Cass realized she was expecting judgment. For her own actions? For her friend's? She had lost everything she'd known.
Back home, almost everyone Cassandra knew had experienced pain and trauma and loss. They all dealt with it in different ways and it was reflected in their actions. Some were motivated and driven, some determined, and others still optimistic. Sometimes those emotions blended making a complex tapestry of kevlar and capes.
There were many things Cass could have said but first she wanted to let Mikasa know she wasn't alone.
"When I was eight..." Cassandra started. She held her head high, her words calm, and she looked straight ahead only occasionally sneaking glances at Mikasa. "Wait. My father. My real father, he was a bad man. An assassin." Her right hand curled into a fist for just a moment. "When I was eight, I killed a man. I didn't want to be what he made me so I ran."
"I ran for years," Cass continued, "but eventually I stopped running. I met people. They became family." She gave Mikasa a soft smile. "You were lucky. You met yours sooner."