Killer, Cannibal, King

Hannibal had it made; they were 20-years old, rated the second-strongest Nephilim in the federal circuit, and a title shot away from taking King's crown, but when they wouldn't throw the fight, they were the one that got thrown. Thrown out of their agency, out of their apartment, and through a brick wall. There was no room for excuses and Hannibal didn't make any, it didn't matter that they were setup, left out to dry; when King caught up to them, they wouldn't hold back, because what was worse than a coward, was a Nephilim that hurt humans. They'd kill Hannibal in the street, and no one would have stopped them, that would have been justice, served. 

It was a woman named Anntoinette—Annie, to most everyone—that saved Hannibal's life, throwing herself between the Nephilim, and by her discretion as an official Nephilim Trainer, took guardianship of Hannibal, then and there. She'd been out on a walk that night, tipsy on a bottle of beer, with barely a cent left to her name; she owed money to a lot of people south-side, so-called banks of last resort, loan sharks that'd cut a check to anyone, even a loser, like her. She was famous among trainers, for the worst reason; three Nephilim died in her custody, earning her the moniker: Grim Reaper Annie. King thought it didn't make a difference, one way or another; Hannibal had been black-listed from combat sports, so all Annie did was delay the inevitable. 

Without the struggle that defined their Creed—their quest to reach the very top of the Nephilim Battle Ladder—Hannibal wouldn't survive their next Conjunction. It was a kindness, really; to let them die to one of Annie's misadventures was better than becoming a monster.