Isn't it strange? It's like after they die, you're only allowed to remember the good. But no one's all good.

There have been times when I've wavered. When I thought maybe I wanted to be normal. But the thing is, what we do, it's in our blood. It's who we are. Normal wouldn't fit us, even if we wanted to wear it.

―Self-righteousness,- Victor said. But when Sydney looked confused, he added, ―He heals. It‘s a reflexive ability. In his eyes, I think that makes it somehow pure. Divine. He can‘t technically use his power to hurt others.
―No,- said Sydney, ―he uses guns for that.
Victor chuckled.

―We could be dead- said Eli.
―That‘s a risk everyone takes by living.

The moments that define lives aren't always obvious. They don't always scream LEDGE, and nine times out of ten there's no rope to duck under, no line to cross, no blood pact, no official letter on fancy paper. They aren't always protracted, heavy with meaning.

Imagine a place where the dead rest on shelves like books.