[ darkness does not frighten him, and it isn't bravery that drives him out and deep into it, armed and ready. he has no intent to hunt the creatures, but neither does he intend to be hunted— and the first time one charges, he plunges a knife deep into it and twists.
it's been far, far too long since he's killed. his reflexes remain intact, fluid and catlike, almost unnaturally so, and they are his greatest advantage in dispatching the threats that come too close. he is deft and well-trained and utterly deadly, but there does come a time when his reflexes fail him. it's only for an instant: the briefest chill of terror that he's never felt before keeps him from sidestepping a blow that fells him and tears across his chest. it was only a second's hesitation, a centimeter too close at that crucial moment, but he is down and bleeding all the same, and he has to make use of every ounce of training he has to silence that instinctive animal terror and regain control of himself, scrambling to his feet.
the pain gives way to fear and then to fury, and once it does, he will attack the wretch with new vigor and cruelty— incapacitating it and torturing it brutally with bloody hands and horrifying preciseness until he is satisfied. find him at any time— as he's killing, while he's wounded, during a moment of fear, or anywhere in between. ]