9:03 p.m. Passion Ministry

Harry stared at his reflection in the bathroom mirror. Though body and soul ached like a bitch, he didn’t look too bad. The bruises wouldn’t appear until later, and his new clothes lent him an air of normalcy. He had tried to return to his room, only to find it under guard. Fortunately, pinching the shirt and beige cords from a maintenance cupboard was easy.

He thought of Rachel. Dead. Lying in her own blood. Was like seeing a photograph of a stranger. Meant nothing.

And the kid, Jimmy? He now existed in some fantastic dream world.

Was he deader than he used to be?

He snorted. Couldn’t help himself. It seemed so absurd. One minute, he was on the receiving end of the cloven hooves, the next he was staring at himself. A zombie with no goal. No guts.

The bathroom went black. A petrifying snarl filled his head; the last vestiges of air zipped from his lungs.

This time, the prince of darkness didn’t speak. Who needs words when you have brute force?

When the thrashing was over, Harry flopped, semi-conscious, over a stall door. Face bloodied. Body beaten. Clothes shredded.

But… his brain flickered.