Jerome shuffled towards the thunderous knocking at his front door, squinting through the mid-morning light that flooded his small living room. He fought down a yawn as he unlocked and yanked open the door, summoning his most intimidating scowl. "What the hell do you think you're doing? I just got off night shift and you do not want to mess with my slee. . . ." Jerome's tirade cut off as the sight of lightning crackling on the electrodes of a stun gun caught his attention. The bald black man at the door grinned like a maniac as he lunged forward to plant the device on Jerome. His initial reaction, sadly, was to freeze. The subsequent reaction, spasming and falling to the floor, happened without his conscious volition.

The man kept the electrodes in contact with Jerome's flesh the entire time, giggling in an unsettling fashion as he flipped Jerome onto his back and drove a knee into his abdomen with enough force to make breathing hard. All the while, Jerome spasmed. Finally, the torment ended. The black man tossed the stun gun aside and dragged Jerome into his house, whistling a merry tune while he sealed up the door and went to work cuffing Jerome's hands to his feet -- right hand to left foot and left hand to right foot so he felt completely helpless.

A solid kick to his side helped Jerome finally control his gasping long enough to make noise. His scream cut off as an invisible force dislocated his jaw, the pain causing him to go into shock momentarily. When he took a breath to scream again, Jerome found himself floating face to face with the home invader and some deep instinct forced him to silence. Everything about this man screamed danger.

"Hi, Jerome Whittaker," the man said, voice conversational. "You, my friend, have the great misfortune of wearing the face of someone I am really, phenomenally pissed at. Like, totes wanna give him the white hot iron poker treatment. Y'know what I mean, girlfriend?"

"Please . . . I never did anything to you . . . ."

The man snickered a laugh, lips turned up in a too wide smile even as his eyes glared malicious intent. "Oh, I know you're innocent. But you see, I've been to this world before. And one of my . . . comrades? . . . took your identity. That shit eater betrayed our cause that time around. Then later on he tried to steal my immortality. It's safe to say there is no one in this universe, or any other, who I hate more." The man tapped Jerome's nose. "And you, silly billy, are the closest thing to him I will ever find to take out my bad intentions on. Ain't that a kick in the ball sack?"

"Oh, God, please . . . ."

"God? You talkin' about the Creator? Ye ole unmoved mover? Cause that bitch is dead, friend. I'm all that remains of Its greatness, and I decided that there is no team in 'I'. It's a play on words, Jerome, think about it for a while and you might get the joke."

"Please . . . ."

A hearty smack directly onto the ear nearly caused Jerome to pass out.

"No more of that 'please' shit."

Jerome squinted at the man through his tears. "Who are you?"

"I'm going by the name Nallit now. By the mythology of the world the Angmari come from, Nallit is the demon of hate, more powerful than any single god in their pantheon and destined to one day destroy all that exists. Best. Name. Ever. And you, Jerome Whittaker, are next on my list of things to destroy."

"Pl . . . ." Jerome caught himself just in time. Nallit clapped in mock appreciation of his restraint.

"People will come looking for me . . . ."

"Oh, Jerome, all the people of your world and all the people of the fleet together couldn't stop me from doing what I will. I hope your little friends show up looking for you so that I can break them in front of you. There is an element of moral torture when you take pleasure in someone else's pain because it represents a delay in your own. And also psychological torture, because you know the pain is going to be yours soon enough. And also regular torture, because the things I do to you are going to cause constant pain until you die. Not to look down on 'regular' torture. It's my favorite, after all."

Jerome saw the ill intent in the man but couldn't stop himself from trying another appeal. "You don't need to do this."

"It's not about need, it's about want. And I want to do things to you, Jerome Whittaker." The man's fake smile evaporated. "One more thing. For the remainder of our association, I'm going to call you Twelve. Got it? Good. It's time to play."