I do this all the time; hunting is my life, always has been my life, always will be my life. But lately… I've been different. Hunting isn't a job anymore. It's a sport. Every demon I kill, every spirit I send back to Hell, I feel a cold savagery in my veins that keeps me going. All I knew was dead. My guidance, my light, every good thing had deserted me. All I could turn to was the dark with its pain and misery, and hope to find some good among the black. My heart had something growing within it; the brightness was being blotted out by something stronger, swelling, engulfing me in a choking smoke of hate and murder. I never batted an eyelid. I killed a lot of demons, and I justified my actions by insisting that I was purging the earth of all its terrors. But I was the terror. Inside those possessed souls was a living, breathing human being that could've had a chance if only I'd learned to deal with my own demons. But now they were dying at my hand. I was swathed in evil, immersed within it, and its merciless chill was slipping into my bones, infecting the person I was. I was a monster, a righteous whirlwind that brought death and destruction and said it didn't matter as long as I was hunting them down. But I was becoming one of them.