Hemlock had always had an obsession with dead things. As a kid, he’d dismember the rats in his home, even collect his bones. He remembers the sweet feeling of the warmth leaving their tiny bodies, the squeals and thrashes slowly dying down.

As a teenager, he shot his sister’s abuser in the head, left him to rot in his apartment. He was imprisoned for years, but now was released once again. Not once had he killed maliciously—not other than the man he’d shot anyways. The rats were curiosity, she held them as they died and kept their bones safe. Hemlock saw it as some sort of worship, to want to see something inside and out.

His new obsession was having a human being allow him to do this sort of thing; to worship them to death. He’d drink their blood, devour them piece by piece with such care they’d be part of him forever. It was the ultimate show of trust, of love, but not without a consenting victim.