The
dingy backstreet café was dimly lit, and the small of charcoaled fried onions
permeated the heavy air. A rickety neon sign swayed in the wind outside, and as
splatters of rain began to hit the glass windows like bullets, forgotten people
came inside seeking shelter from the cold.
He liked this place; it was the place where
people sat when they had nothing left to lose. Running his fingers through his
chestnut curls to displace the remnants of rain water, he promptly ordered from
the bumbling waitress.
‘Coffee.
Strong. Black. No sugar’ It was his usual drink and his line of work had given
him a very thorough knowledge of the ‘dos’ and ‘don’ts’ of café etiquette. He
did not have time for inane questions tonight.
‘Sweet
enough already, are you?’ The toothy waitress blushed as she attempted to flirt
with the enigmatic man in front of her. Pitiful, he thought to himself, pitiful
and pathetic.
‘Oh,
you have no idea!’ His answering predatory smile silenced her and she hurriedly
turned her back to make his drink. It was such a paradox, he mused, as he
regarded his reflection in the sodden window. His appearance was intended to
attract, to entice, to seduce. But there was always that edge, that undertone,
which made people hyper-aware, which spelled dangerous. He loved the taste of
their fear; it had a homely, familiar tang to it.
Taking his steaming liquid, he retreated to a
table in the corner and surveyed his surroundings. It looked no different from
any of the other ‘Greasy Spoons’ he had frequented. Black and white tiled
floor, stained of course, with crass red leather booths and silver unsteady
tables lined the window. It was supposed to look like an authentic ‘American Diner’.
It didn’t. The stench of poverty and despair reeked, even above the scented
smile of the grease laden food. His personal distaste for his environment was
not allowed to matter much though. He had been sent here to retrieve a new
recruit. They were due to arrive any time now, and his instructions were never
wrong. He had never failed in his duty yet, making him his Master’s right hand
man. She must be important, he considered, if he had been sent for the task.
His prominent role meant that he was only sent on high profile cases. That
said, he loved his job, no matter who the victim. He relished in the power of
the game and the sickening end result. It made his almost translucent skin feel
warm for the first time in years. The thrill of a successful catch.
The
momentary clink of a bell alerted him to the presence of someone new. A girl.
The first thing he noticed was that she was soaked to the point of saturation.
Her jeans clung to her like a second skin in a most unflattering way and her
pumps were so threadbare, they barely clung onto her feet. Leisurely, he
scanned up her body, drinking in her hopelessness and despair. Wearing a band
hoodie emblazoned ‘Bleeding on the Ballroom Floor’, it became apparent that she
was ‘emo’, and was therefore, prone to a little melodrama. A white lead dangled
down the front of her hoodie leading to her ears where her headphones were
buried into her ears. Her hair appeared black in the rain, although he sensed
that if it had been dry, she probably had some wacky dye in its place. A cry to
be different it would seem, which ironically made her exactly the same as every
16 year old girl he had ever seen. She had wide spaced, sea green eyes but they
seem panicked and too alert, like she was expecting someone to pounce on her
and drag her out at any second. Her cheeks were quite rounded, but were drawn
at the same time, lacking the rosy complexion he was certain they deserved. Her
lips were clearly her best feature, lusciously pink and soft. He knew instantly
that she was the one he had been sent for.
Shifting
in his seat, he stretched out his long legs and folded his arms. The games were
about to begin, and he couldn’t wait to play…
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