It's been a while since someone looked at him that way. More hungry than hateful. Len likes when he can see his face.

No one around here can or would appreciate what he's offering the way Kabal can.

The one man who stuck by his side, through thick and thin, no matter how ugly or desperate things got, can barely stand the sight of him. Stayed alive for hundreds, maybe thousands of years, just for the chance to kill him with his own hands.

Heroes are disgusted by him, judge him for who he is and where he's from, and the assholes he used to call his peers think he's sold out.

Being good doesn't pay, and being bad, really bad... doesn't feel as good as it used to.

Nothing feels good anymore.

Except for the way Kabal is touching him. That feels kind of good. He's got rough hands. His thumb callused to hell and back. Len already knows he likes the way burnt, twisted skin feels beneath his fingertips, and men who run hotter than is safe for themselves or others.

"Depends. Would you kill someone for me?" As soft as Len knows how. He drags a pointed toe up the length of Kabal's thigh and back down again, eyes stormy in spite of the sunlight. Dangerous seas ahead.

Someone's in for a rough voyage.