But his wisp, his wisp is the same as mine. Ours were both black.
He was me, I was him, and we were we. He was the same as me, and although we were separate, our souls were one.
He feels pain, I feel pain. He gets bruised, I get bruised. He dies, I die. His wisp is the same as mine.
I don’t know why. Maybe we’re twins.
Only closer.

His hunger, his obsession, his blood lust has gone too far. He has an odd obsession with the human heart. He likes the way it feels, the way it looks, and the way it beats even after taken out.
It’s funny how a man who collects hearts can be so… heartless.
This has to be stopped.