She’s not loving it the way I am. Her eyes are vacant, like that streetwalker in Whitechapel Angelus amused himself with. I laugh as her blade slashes against my face; she’s stronger than I am, but she’ll lose just the same. She doesn’t want it the way I do. To her it’s just another fight, like the one last night and the night before that. It’s her duty.

As I pierce her throat I wonder if she’s happy to be liberated.