“So what are you?”

Hangman scoffed down in his throat. “I have two directives. Neither of them involve answering every ignorant question that pops into your little peanut brain, in case you were jotting things down.”

 “Noted,” Ramona grit out. She shouldn’t have asked. This guy was creepy and weird and also, frankly, a bit of a bitch. Helpful and/or straightforward answers just weren’t in the cards where his type was concerned. 

 “But,” Hangman added, because he was also apparently That Guy, the kind who just could not help himself when he was given a knife to twist. He leaned in close, like he was going to tell Ramona a secret, which was an uncomfortable experience, because not only did he clink like a bag full of old coke cans and smell like something ancient and damp, but she was absolutely certain she didn’t want to hear any kind of secret he could impart. 

She held her ground, though. Looked up through the eyeholes in the bag over his head and into the oily glow of what she assumed (hoped) were eyes. Didn’t flinch. “But?” she asked.

“I’m all about making a good, strong first impression,” Hangman said. “So I’ll tell you. What happened to me is irreversible; one-way and final. Until someone figures out how to scour me off the face of this earth, and the Dream, and whatever lies beyond the Veil, I am as I am.”

 “So what are you?” Ramona asked, trying to make herself sound flat and uninterested–but her voice just came out petulant and childish. Hangman’s laugh rattled like a killing cough caught in the lungs.