Mickael Witt was an emo, with him, everything was dark and deep. He was tall for his age, with a slender build, and pale skin. His hair was jet-black and partially covered his face. His features were very soft, even though his jaw was often tense. He usually wore black—black tank tops, black T-shirts, black sweaters, and black bootcut jeans. He wore a chain around his neck and a spiked bracelet that he never took off. Quiet and reserved, he didn’t talk about himself; he didn’t talk much at all and preferred to keep his guard up. But when he did open up, he was just a boy who had never received much affection or attention and had learned to be invisible. He wrote his own poems and illustrated them—that was his thing—but he never showed them to anyone; perhaps he was too private, or too embarrassed. Late at night, he would often go out to feed the skinny stray cats, who had nowhere else to go and meowed with hunger, it was his secret.