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“Two words: Callypso. Lillis.”

January, 7 years ago

“For the thousandthtime, I didn’t do anything to her!”

Mr. Whitechapel and I are in an abandoned building in Balti, Moldova. The ground is littered with old plastic wrappers, a few used condoms, and some broken beer bottles. The windows have long since been boarded up, and the only light that trickles in comes from a section of the roof that’s caved in. The place smells like urine, vermin, and mildew. Oh, and blood. It’s beginning to smell like blood.

Other than a little teenage revelry, this is a forgotten building in the poor section of a city and country most people are not even aware exists. Whitechapel might as well be invisible.

I circle Callie’s teacher. “What should I do next? Take a finger or break another bone?”

The man begins to openly weep.

A few of his toes I’ve already taken. I’m considering threading a string through them and making them into a necklace. Perhaps I’ll give it to Callie …

… too gruesome …

No one asked you.I swear the shadows only freely talk when I don’t want to listen to them.

“Please,” Whitechapel weeps.

I’d like to say this is painful to watch. I’d like to say that there’s something soft in me that shies away from this, but then I wouldn’t be the Night King.

I crouch in front of the teacher. “Are you ready to tell me why you targeted Callypso Lillis?”

He’s been denying any wrongdoing up until now.

He takes a few deep breaths. “She liked me.” His voice quavers. “She wanted to get to know me better.”

My anger roils within me.She liked me.

I pull my knife out and flip it in my hand, then grab for his leg. His foot is already bloody.

“I think I should take two toes for that lie,” I say, my voice even.

“Wait—wait!”

He begins to scream. It only gets louder as I make good on my threat.

He cries for a long time after that, and I patiently wait it out.

“The truth,” I demand once I feel he’s ready to talk again. This time I force my magic on him.

He chokes for several seconds, fighting whatever answer he’s about to say. Placidly, I watch him struggle.

“She was a loner,” he finally says. “I’m not good with women, and I—she … I’m not a bad guy,” he pleads. “She would’ve liked it. Shedidwant me.”

I almost lose it then. Only my long-practiced control stops me from smashing his face in over and over again until it’s nothing more than meaty pulp.

His body slumps as my magic leaves him.

“How many others?” I ask, steadying my rage.

Predators don’t just wake up one day with these urges. They grow and build over time.

He looks at me dazedly, sweat dotting his face.

I force my magic on him. “How. Many.”