He is judgement.
They're only one man's sins but they weigh upon him just as heavily.
They're not beings. Not people. Just sin and torment spun from mist, woven into form and being like the silk spurting from a spider. They're not allowed to be innocent. They deserve it. Why else would he be here? The act is always mechanical and passionless. Routine. Almost habit. Grab. Pin her though she squirms and screams. Thrust until flesh and blood splinters and cracks under the assault. And then it's done, and she's nothing but another set of stains upon his skin, upon the walls, spilling crimson over everything. Afterwards, he always feels oddly empty. Like a shell. Like an empty suit of armour, protecting nothing, immune to everything.
It's duty. It's purpose. It's why he exists. It's as deeply ingrained as the urge to take his next breath and just as hard to ignore.
The helmet digs into his shoulder, rubs insistently with the motion of each footstep, finally tears through to open a new gash in his skin. How strange to shed his own blood, feel his own pain. How strange to feel.
That name's on his tongue again. "James. James. James." He mindlessly repeats it over and over again like a mantra. His voice is like the wind blowing over a gravestone, slowly eroding it into dust.
And then there's only silence.
He treads the hallways, the metal knife scraping floor and wall alike in his wake, striking brilliant sparks that flare like fireflies, and searches for another soul to judge.