For several seconds after he turned on the light, Heartbreaker only stared.

The room was only dimly lit; she'd unscrewed all but one of the bulbs from the ceiling fixture. Across the space opposite his bed was the banner Imp had confiscated from Juliette – "DAD'S DEATH DAY" in adorable pink glitter paint. It hung above a clutch of black balloons, and there was confetti strewn on every surface. As he read the banner, she even took a moment to put some on his bed.

Upon the walls, in the same black marker she'd been using all fortnight, were the various insults Alec and she had dreamed up for him. Her wrist actually ached from the amount that she'd written. IMPOTENT was her favourite, of course – it had two meanings, and her name – which he was staring at now.

As she watched, sweat beaded up on his forehead, and he glanced around nervously. He read the walls, lips moving, frown deepening. He patted his pockets for his phone, which she'd stolen. Then he went for the door to the hall. He placed his hand on the handle, and recoiled, a wet red smear coating his fingers. "Shit!"

For several seconds in the dim light he stared at the gunk. Imp leaned over him, watching his expression. With a sickened grimace, he wiped it off on his robe. Standing on tiptoe, she blew some air on the back of his neck. He shuddered, raising his clean hand to cover it, looking around. She waited.

After several seconds, he went to the door to the en suite, and touched the handle cautiously. Finding nothing, he tried to open it, but it wouldn't budge. While he was struggling with it, she climbed the dressed and emptied a bottle of the fake blood over his head. He lurched backwards, tripped on the rug, and fell over. He pawed frantically at his hair and eyes as the thick liquid ran down his neck. "Shit, shit, shit!"

He reached for the coverlet to wipe it away, so she grabbed it. He tugged hard, she held on, and eventually he yanked it so hard it ripped. He used it to absorb most of the blood, balled it, and tossed it into the corner of the room. His skin was still smeared red, from which his eyes glared white and wild. He was breathing hard, hypervigilant for the next unexplained event. She made him wait for several minutes. When he started to relax, she trickled a thin stream of droplets down the back of his neck. They oozed slow and cold down his spine, and he lurched to his feet, running to the window, grabbing it, trying to open it. She kept drip-dripping the blood down his neck as his movements grew faster, more urgent as he struggled with the window latch, jiggling it violently until it snapped. "Fuck!"

She let out a soft giggle beside his ear. He jumped, lashed out with an arm. Then he froze.

On the wooden floor, letters were appearing, daubed one by one in the same deep crimson blood that was all over him. Tortuously slowly, they spelled out their message, as he watched, frozen to the spot.

I-M C-O-M-I-N-G F-O-R Y-O-U.

After half a heartbeat the period smeared into a line, moving towards him. He leapt back, and as the line followed, gingerly circled around the writing to the rug, panting aloud. He pulled open the dresser draws, searching for the key to the window, and found all of them empty even of their normal contents. He scoured the room, leaving smears everywhere he touched, but all the drawers and the wardrobe had been emptied. Even the laundry basket. All of them were marked instead with splatters of blood.

As he turned, she tripped him again and he landed hard against the floorboards. Under his eyes, an invisible finger traced smaller letters.

ANY LAST WORDS?

He began to hyperventilate. "I-I..." he stammered.

Imp laughed. He froze, frowned in concentration, fists clenched. He still couldn't find her, of course.

She drew her knife and cut his arm. He didn't seem to notice the pain, but scrambled to his feet started pacing. She followed him, cutting and cutting, until he was bleeding from every limb. She even got one over his forehead as he paused by the sofa, remembering what Brian had said about head wounds bleeding over eyes. Soon he was wiping blood from his face every few seconds, and after a minute he came to an abrupt stop in front of the mirror and realised it was his blood. He put a slow, disbelieving hand to the forehead cut. "Martina!" he shouted. His voice wobbled. Then he frowned, remembering that she was gone, and called, "Girls!"

Imp heard them on the other side of the door, knocking and calling questions.

"Break down the door!"

He'd barely finished the sentence before she stuck her knife in his mouth, cutting both corners of his lips. He pressed a hand over it, pulling back into a corner, raising his other hand defensively. His eyes moved about the room, but there was only blood, taunting ink, and faintly laughing air.

Imp nicked his cheek, slowly, methodically. Tiny cuts, no more than an inch, in neat rows across his cheeks. He flinched at every cut, tried to cover his face, whimpered aloud. "No...no..."

Over his voice came loud banging at the door. Imp sighed, prompting another shiver from Heartbreaker. The girls might be able to get through, even with Anita running emotional interference, so she should probably get on with it.

She stabbed him in the eye, eliciting a howl of pain, and then as he stumbled forwards, tripped him for the last time. He fell ungracefully, limbs sprawling, robe coming open as he tumbled and rolled to a stop near the bottom of his bed.

For a split second, she appeared over him. Long enough for him to see her face and sense her intent. Not long enough for him to change it.

"You're not...Jean-Paul..." he hissed out.

"You got me," she agreed dryly, and with a quick slice of the knife, cut off his dick.

She wasn't really going to put it on the monument, but it seemed like the right thing to do. She chucked it away in disdain, and burst into laughter when she saw him turning his head to look at it, his eyes widening in horrific realisation. His blood-soaked hands reached downwards.

Maybe she should've filmed this for the kids.

Nah. It would be her secret. She didn't want to give them any ideas. And if Alec was watching, he'd be the only person enjoying this with her.

What surprised her was that it wasn't fast. Though the girls continued banging at the door, occasionally breaking off to cry or argue as Anita interfered, they didn't get through. Imp sat on the bed, elbows on her knees, watching Heartbreaker crawl around the room. He went to the door and begged against it for someone to come in and help. He cried for Aviator to come through the window, and then for Camille, and then for Guillaume. He dragged himself to the corner where his severed limb lay limp, and sat with his head bowed as if over a grave. For a little while he screamed with rage, and he also threw up more than once as he glanced down at the gored stump.

For a few minutes he cried apologies to Jean-Paul, begged forgiveness and mercy. Imp was tempted to cut his tongue out for daring to say the name, but it was also satisfying. She settled for pouring the last of the fake blood into his mouth as he spoke. He choked, spluttered, pawed at his mouth, sobbed, covered his face, wailed in terror, curled into the foetal position, and began to sob. He clutched his crotch and wheezed despondently. Gradually, his breathing became fainter. She crept closer to hear it, to listen for the moment. Finally, he hissed out one last breath, and was still.

Imp didn't move. She stared at his face without really seeing it, thinking about the past.

She was only roused by the sound of screaming from outside.

[AN: whoops! This chapter and the next are the reason for the M rating! Imp is the second scariest Undersider and I'll fight anyone who claims otherwise. Edit: An earlier version of this chapter was uploaded by mistake between Dec 10 and 14. That's since been rectified! Imp's first blood message got deleted somehow so that's back, amongst some minor proofreading errors.]