Long, curved, and razor-sharp, they seemed almost elegant, their sharp points catching the soft gleam of the overhead lamp. They were tools of precision, capable of slicing through flesh and bone, capable of tearing through barriers with ruthless ease. 

Tools of survival.

Of instinct. 

Of hunting. 

Each glint off his claws was like a quiet whisper, reminding him of what they were truly meant for.

The clean, swift end.