Subject Child (BBSx Reader GTAverse)

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Your POV
(Y/n). That's who I am. A seventeen year old girl with (h/l) (h/c) and (e/c). I have (s/c) and I live alone in a crummy apartment in Los Santos. But I won't complain, the rent is cheap. You may be asking, 'what's so special about you?' Well, what's so special is that I'm a Subject Child. I had abusive parents before they sold me off to an illegal human experimenting group on my thirteenth birthday. Yeah, how does that sound? Being sold off to a illegal group on the day you were born. They kept me for a year before dumping me on a highway, saying that I wasn't 'responding to the experiment the way they wanted', only for a month later, I managed to backhand spring away from someone attempting to take a swing at me, not to mention I scorched the wall beside their head after throwing out my hand to block them and having a fire ball shoot out of it. Guess what ever experiment they did to me worked out, but the sons of bitches we're just impatient. I also am Los Santos top serial killer, and thief who works alone.  You can always tell who I killed. My victims always have their throats torn out with my flesh tearing wolf fangs, another gift from the criminal scientist, and their body will always be burned away under their hips, no higher. People think them to be gruesome murder scenes, but I think my victims are a work of art. I only work at night, my signature red wolf half mask concealing my eyes, while I keep my (h/l) (h/c) tucked under my hood. I travel by roof top, keeping my ice blue chrome knife in its sheath at my hip. Another thing that those dick heads gave me, Icicle, as I call my knife, is 'special'. If you were to disarm me, I would just need to give a one note sharp whistle, and Icicle would throw itself at you, stab and rip it's self through your body, then sheath it's self. It only responds to me. Talk about some super hero ass shit, am I right? But I'm no super hero. There are thousands of innocents deaths on my hands, and I enjoyed every single one. To be honest, I can't go one day without the taste of people's blood on my tongue. I've killed innocents, escaped convicts, you name it. Like my latest art work, found in an abandoned building, was half a gang, all their throats torn out, each had their flesh burned off below the waist, so that their top half was the only flesh remaining as their leg bones and more lied out on the ground in a pool of their blood. Their are thousands of bounties set on me by other gangs, and so many have tried to track me down. Problem is, no one knows what my murderous personality looks like. I leave no victims behind, so no one can report. And I don't have a street name for myself. All I leave behind as an indication as to who the murder is either by my art, or by using Icicle to draw a 'H' in my victims blood. I don't know what people think it stands for, but the only reason why I draw it is because I remember seeing something with an H in the illegal lab. I keep writing it, not certain what it stands for myself.

"Where is my new art piece..." I said to myself, jumping from building to building with my cat agility, looking for a poor soul who would have been dumb enough to wander into an alley. "Come on, why is everyone being so cautious? I've only had like, fifteen victims so far." I adjusted my mask a bit, as a crescent moon glowed at my back. I growled in frustration, sitting on the edge of a building, looking into an alley way, giving up. "Fine! I'll wait for my victim to find me then." I took out Icicle, flipping it over in my hands, examining the blade. I've tried to figure out what exactly gives it the ability to fly and kill people with a whistle. Well, not really kill people. The whistle just returns it to me. It sheaths itself, and I don't really like to use it. It's not as fun. I heard something crash in the alley below me, and looked to see a drunk man stumble in. "Finally!" I mumble to myself, standing up. The building was two stories, so I jumped off the ledge, tucking and rolling when i hit the ground, barely making a sound. I stalked up to the drunk man. He was probably around six feet, and he practically towered over me, since I was only five foot five. He stumbled around. "What a pity." I said aloud, the drunk whirling to me. "That your blood will have the taste of alcohol on it. It makes it taste a lot more bitter." I giggled, then lunged, his scream echoing off the walls of the alley.