Each blow was a memory.
Each strike carried the weight of what he'd become.
The satisfaction of his first death—Death Angel—had mattered at the time. It felt necessary, like he was saving himself from the monster. Noble, even. But looking back now, Northern couldn't shake the suspicion that he'd manipulated himself into feeling that way.
'Made it easier to sleep at night, probably.'
Actually, not a suspicion. He had done exactly that.
The dark pleasure that came afterward, though? That was harder to justify. The way he watched monsters—and yes, humans too—burning in black flame. The satisfaction was real. Addictive, even. With Black Lance, the pleasure turned macabre, twisted into something he couldn't quite name but recognized all the same.
'You enjoyed it. Just admit it.'
