Black does not dress in black. Black is her identity, regardless of her form and appearance. The fire ritual, which made her Black, is different for each practitioner. You don’t talk about it to anyone else. Black, White, Blue and Red – none of them know what the others went through. Black’s fire ritual can’t really be described, because none of it really happened – not in any way that would have meaning to you. Black has saucy theories about White’s ritual, though – White’s speciality is finger magic. He has a murder diorama at home that he made by hand, and it lives.
Black sees. Too many of her clients thought that made her a passive magician. It doesn’t. Someone who can see you has power over you. Black knows who you are. She doesn’t need to know your name.
Today, Black sits in a cafe and looks at a target. She got to know him last week. Over the five days since, he has slowly been destroying himself. He cries himself to sleep because he doesn’t understand why he’s doing the things he’s doing. Petty little man, Black thinks. For him, evil is stealing from your employer and torturing your wife and fiddling with your children and rigging your neighbour’s postbox to explode in her face. The worst thing for him is that Black makes him enjoy it. The guilt is what will kill him. And he’ll take his wife and children with him, because of that guilt. He won’t even allow them to sink in their pain.
Black dreamt of her fire ritual the night before. She woke up shivering, with a fever. She plants an idea of fire in the target’s head, and she sips her coffee with delicacy, and she smiles.