The soon-to-be victim muttered incoherently to himself as he made his way through the dark alleyway. It was difficult not to wonder about the man. Where was he going? At this time of night and through such a rough neighbourhood?

It didn’t matter though. The victim’s thoughts were screaming. Roaring like a storm-bell. And the Enemy hid itself within them.

Creeping up behind him was easy, almost unreasonably so, as the tall, lanky man in tattered robes muttered, scratched his head and flailed his arms as he walked, absorbed in his own world. The noise of the Enemy was louder this close to him, a searing, buzzing, chittering scream of wants and needs that marked him, necessarily, for death.

The murderer had killed before. Twice, not counting the last week. But before, it had always only been in self-defence. This was different. This was to protect the city. The teeming, strange, fabulous and awful city that was Sonderport. If the Enemy gained a foothold here, there would be no stopping it!

“No!” the soon-to-be victim exclaimed suddenly, making the murderer start and withdraw a little. “Mad Anthrax commands it!” The soon-to-be victim fumbled with a book, which hung on a string on his belt, flopping around his knees when he walked. “Will spell the spell, the god, he says it. He says no in his awesome majesty. Have to find a dead one. Important god-business!”

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The man urgently flipped pages in the notebook, stopping in his tracks.

Perfect. There was light streaming from a small window to the left, but the soon-to-be victim had stopped with his notebook just on the edge of the illumination that showed the dirt and grime on the ground.

It was quick. The knife found its home in the victim’s neck in one swift motion and every muscle in his body went rigid for a second as he was grabbed from behind, held on his feet as life left him like dirty gerbils scurrying from a sinking ship.

The victim’s warm, struggling body was thrown from the murderer’s arms and the knife withdrew. Blood pulsed freely onto the wall and ground in dark, sticky spurts.

The murderer looked at the victim, finally lying still and cold on the dirty ground, the roar of the thoughts stilled. The calm seemed almost unnatural on a character like the madman.

It was wrong, all of it. But the screeching, howling babble of the Enemy had ceased. Still, the victim, however strange he might have been, deserved better than to rot in an alleyway in this shithole. There was no telling how long he’d be allowed to lie here before the watch found him and brought him to the Bacon House for cremation. If any of his belongings stayed with the corpse for more than a minute, it would be a miracle. They’d probably even steal his tattered robe.

It wasn’t right. The other victims of the Enemy… No, he had to be laid out, so he would be found. One of the previous victims of the Enemy had been left in the bed where he died. Maybe he hadn’t been found yet. A sobering, remorseful thought.

With a sigh, the murderer bent down to haul the still-warm corpse off the ground.