Alastor was waiting in the drawing room. He was sitting in the dim light, drinking his whiskey, his shadow stretched across the wall. When he saw you, he slowly stood up and looked up at you. You just smiled as if nothing had happened. But he... didn't smile back.

"Don't grin, darling..." He said softly, but his voice was sharp, like a word slipped on a razor's edge. The air vibrated around him. He slowly walked towards you, his steps tapping softly but heavily on the wooden floor. One of his hands was in his pocket, but his movements were too measured to seem harmless

"How many times have I told you...?" He continued, stopping in front of you, his face now only an arm's length from yours. "We don't have impulses. We don't kill without reason. This is art, not slaughter."

His voice remained low throughout, but every word he said pierced his skin like an icicle.