Roderick couldn't feel anything when the spray of hot water hit him. His skin was so cold that as the water warmed him it began to feel like a hurricane of little needles piercing his skin. Bright blue eyes flashed in his mind and he stifled an angry scream. He'd done as Joe asked, always done what Joe asked. Without him, Joe would have nothing. Joe wouldn't have this house, his wife, or his kid. What did Roderick get in return? Dreams and fucking illusions, he got put in his place.

Roderick got nightmares, ones that didn't make any sense.

The darkness was always there and closing in on him, it was oppressive. He somehow knew he was running out of time, that he needed to find something. That kid from the FBI was always there. Smiling at him through bloody teeth, so sure of himself.

Roderick never had nightmares before Joe. He wasn't like the other children; children who were afraid of the dark or the boogeyman and wouldn't let their mothers out of their site. He hadn't been afraid of anything before, ever. Until he met Joe.

Watching Joe cut into that girl; he'd been afraid for the first time, truly afraid, and it was intoxicating. The feeling dulled too quickly. It left a void; like a black hole swirling inside of him. It ate away at his other emotions until he craved only to fill that space with fear. Inflicting pain on others, soaking up the emotions that came so easily to them. Terror was a beautiful thing; slowly breaking down a person's hope until there was nothing left but dust.

At first Roderick had been hypnotized by Joe's antiquated style, his signature at the bottom of the page, it was all so artistic. It became obvious once Joe was gone, that the signature held him back. By himself Roderick could do anything, be him it wasn't about the stabbing, the breath of life and death, or the fucking heartbeat. It didn't matter how you disposed of them; reducing them to ash and letting them float away on a breeze, or returning them to the earth and letting mother nature feast on their remains.

For Roderick it wasn't about the planning, killing or the disposal. He had no signature, no ritual.

It was about fear. What quantity of fear could he force down his victim's throat until they choked, gasped, and begged for death? At what point did survival instinct turn into mercy plea? Roderick lived for that moment, in between the seconds, when a person's soul ceased to occupy their body. Not the moment he took their life, that was another category of release, this was the moment that they first felt the grinding and final realization that there was no hope left. When all that stood between them and forever was Roderick. His victim's loss of self helped fill the vacuous darkness in his chest.

Lately, he'd been so wrapped up in Joe's plan and dealing with all these unpredictable elements, that he hadn't been able to take care of his own needs. Roderick could feel that hole inside of him like an open wound. Sticky black essence leaking out of him and coating everything he touched. He wasn't a failure, he hadn't failed Joe, Joe had failed him. Joe had sent him to find out where Claire was and in doing so had put Roderick on the radar of that little shit of a kid. Hardy's sidekick, boy-wonder.

Weston had smirked and spit his name back at him like he knew something. Roderick wanted so badly to hurt him, to twist his will. He wanted nothing more than to crack that porcelain veneer, to hurt this boy in ways he hadn't hurt yet. He wanted so badly he ached with it, but this wasn't for him. This blue-eyed beauty was promised to another, as was everything else. Roderick had given Joe everything and Joe had given him nothing!

The water ran cold. This wasn't his shower at home, endless hot water. This was the mansion, Joe's mansion. Joe had just gotten his wife back, he had everything. Roderick had a cold shower. He stepped out and wrapped the towel around his waist. He checked the locks again and the cabinets, you could never be sure with all the freaks around this place.

Mirrors weren't his enemy but he avoided looking at the thing just the same. Roderick knew what he would see. A sea of blue. Blue eyes that weren't his own. The ones he saw now were full of missed opportunity. Teasing him, goading him on. Roderick hadn't had the chance to see those eyes flicker and give up. He wasn't given the time to break Weston right, a sloppy rush job for such a loyal thing. He'd been ready to die with a resolute purpose and Roderick couldn't sleep or breathe or blink without aching for that infuriating boy.

Roderick knew Weston was a liar. Weston was the only one who could know where Claire was. Roderick had the intel so it was easy to have the boy figured out. He hadn't expected or accounted for those blue eyes and now he was paying a terrible price. It felt like he'd opened Pandora's box. Roderick pulled on his uniform slowly, methodically. It was more than his job, it was his persona, his mask. The last element was that shining gold star. It had to be perfect, always perfect.

Joe would make this up to him, he would give him Weston. Joe owed Roderick that.

Once Weston was his, well, he would make sure that his end came in the slowest possible way. He'd make Weston his pet, break him. When every memorable trace of the former FBI agent was gone he'd make the young man beg for the sweet release of death.

Roderick adjusted his belt and looked up at Weston's eyes in the mirror.

"I'm coming for ya boy."