"My razor!"

Sweeney tore his grip from the railing of the staircase and flung his body back upward. Hot blood was pumping through every vein, while his head felt light and spinning in all directions. Never before had he felt such euphoric mania.

The bells clamored, piercing the dead quiet night. He yanked open the door to the barber shop. When a figure emerged from his cloudy, frantic, vision, he stopped.

"You! What are you doing here?"

The thin, young boy stood frozen. Sweeney could see nothing of the boy's face, shadowed by his cap, except a mouth which hung open wide.

"Speak!" he commanded. He grew more furious at the interruption of his plans.

"Oh dear." The boy's voice was as light and airy as Sweeney's head felt. "Er-excuse me, sir. I saw the barber's sign. So thinking to ask for a shave, I—"

"When?" Sweeney snapped. "When did you come in?"

"Oh sir, I beg of you." Suddenly the boy's voice rose an octave. If Sweeney were not deep into the throes of euphoric revenge, this surely would have raised an alarm. Whatever this boy was— human, ghost— he only knew it had to be eliminated. "Whatever I have seen, no man shall ever know. I swear it." The boy's voice trembled. "Oh, sir, please, sir."

"A shave, eh?"

In one sweeping movement Todd lunged towards the chair and spun it around to face the young man. His hands pressed so tightly against the back it seemed as though his nails would rip right through the leather.

"At your service."

"But sir…"

Sweeney's blood began to pump hot again, thrilled at the idea of once again feeling his cold razor against warm skin.

"Whatever you may have seen, your cheeks are still as much in need of the razor as before. Sit sir, sit."

Clutching the bony shoulder of the boy, Sweeney shoved him down onto the plush leather seat. His free arm shot out towards the bloody razor lying on the table, when suddenly the shrill whistle of the bakery pierced through his throbbing head.

"Die! Die!" Mrs. Lovett screamed from afar.

From beneath his talon, the young man suddenly twisted and broke free. All at once he leapt up and scampered towards the door.

Sweeney lunged his long body at him, tearing at whatever he could grip.

His bloody fingers made contact with the fabric of the boy's cap. Clamping down, Sweeney felt only the cold skin of his empty palm.

All at once the cap revealed a stream of warm, yellow gold flowing from the navy cloth like water.

Sweeney inhaled the clearest breath he had ever inhaled, as if the air were made of pure ice.

The sailor was a young woman.

Antony was supposed to hide Johanna here.

Johanna.

Johanna.

She's here.

He lunged further towards her, now out the door. He gripped her tiny wrist as it clung for guidance on the stair rail. It twisted and turned, but Sweeney brought his other arm around to clutch her bicep and began dragging her back up the stairs.

"Let me go!" Johanna shrieked, her voice echoing through the cold night like the shop's bell moments ago.

"Come here my pet!" Sweeney joyously laughed, tilting his head up to the sky. His black, crescent eyes began to water with euphoria under the tiny stars. Sweeney's unhinged cackling only further frightened her.

As he dragged her fighting body in, her fingers clung to the sides of the doorframe. Every impulse she had in her screamed not to let this man fully take her inside the barber shop. When Sweeney removed one of his hands from her waist, she took the opportunity to thrust herself forwards, but instead his hand landed on hers, splaying his larger fingers out over her hand. His other hand did the same to her left, and he began laughing even harder as his fingers clenched down and pried her grip from the door.

"You won't be leaving this time, my love!" He cackled, his voice booming against the walls like thunder. He quickly wrapped his arms around her and kicked closed the barber shop door, Johanna's scream melting into the high-pitched ding! of the bell.

Despite her kicking and punching, he tossed her around until she faced him, still locked in his snake-like embrace. Her large eyes gazed into his in pure fear, her porcelain skin growing even paler.

"Johanna!" He sang. He grinned in relief, though his eyes still held the spark of insanity. Johanna could now see his white face splashed with dried blood, and her heart rate accelerated once again.

Before she had time to wonder why Antony would take her to a murderer, his black crescent moons gazed right through her soul as he whispered, "My darling, Johanna."

For a fleeting moment, Johanna considered that this man had no desire to kill her. After all, he didn't embrace the crazed woman and sing her name before disposing of her. But surely, this madman could have other sick desires to inflict upon her.

She ripped her gaze from his and stared at the floor, shuddering and hyperventilating. Looking into those black pools was more than she could bear. Surely Antony would be here any second to save her.

A gasp escaped her throat as his blood-soaked hands gripped the sides of her face, forcing her to look back into those pitch-black pools.

He inhaled, his dark brows raising, a relieved smile on his red splattered face. "You're finally mine now." Never before had she seen an expression of such joy and such madness.

Johanna released one more scream, the loudest she could physically produce. Sweeney grabbed a rag dangling over the table and pushed it over her mouth. Johanna was overcome with the scent of shaving cream and cologne, so much so that she could taste it.

Muffling against the cloth, the helplessness of her situation fully soaked in. Sweeney's smile and laughter made her eyes go wide. Her pale skin faded to white, and her body grew limp.

Sweeney snapped out of his mania as Johanna's eyelids fluttered closed. Her weight dropped and he quickly caught her. He reveled at the feeling of her weight in his arms. He had missed so much.

Cradling her, Sweeney leaned her head against his chest and swept his arm under knees. He creaked across the floorboards, into the tiny attached bedroom, laying her down on his bed. The room was sparse with only a single bed, a window, and a small dresser. All Sweeney ever did was sleep and plot his revenge.

He admired her beautiful pale skin streaked with dried blood and her yellow hair catching the light of the moon through the large windows.

Now sure that she was truly unconscious, Sweeney rose from his crouched position beside the bed. Never turning his back from her sleeping form, he backed away out the bedroom door, locking it behind him. He hurried out of his shop, locking that door as well.

Sweeney bounded down the steps to the bakehouse, where he knew he would find Lovett and the source of her earlier screams.