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... e.”

“There's a small hole at the bottom of the wall—turn into a little person and crawl through it!”

“Just open the door for me already.”

“Creak...”

The door swung open.

Standing inside was a little girl with her sleeves rolled up high, holding a scrubbing brush in her hand.

Her arms were fair and clean, her hands still damp, as if she had just been in the middle of doing some chore.

“Why didn’t you turn into a little person?”

“Lady ...

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“Now… where should I put you both?” he asked casually, not expecting a reply. “It’s regretful that I only have one chandelier.”

“Underneath my bed? No, no, too dirty. My dust bunnies don’t deserve this,” Atticus mused to himself. “The mantlepiece? How about the vanity table? I suppose if I lop off one of your heads I could mount it over… Wife, which head do you want to stare at while you do your hair?”

“Atticus!” Daphne screamed. “I don’t want any heads! Let them go.”

“Fair enough.” Atticus shrugged, and flicked his fingers.

There were two identical cracks as both necks snapped at once.

Daphne gasped, horrified. This man, her husband, had just killed two men with a flick of his finger, as though he was snuffing out candles.

“I told you to let them go!” Daphne cried out.

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