A/N: A quick one-shot detailing what could be just another afternoon in the life of a certain serial killer and all around psychopath ;)
Smooth light melted onto rough brick, light-bordering-on-loud conversation thrumming the walls. Numerous conversations spun webs around the dark oak and cherry countertops, their spark illuminating the gloom. A gleaming array of wine bottles rested under display lights, their labels displaying romantic, foreign names. The bartender washed the dull yet already impeccable countertop with a grimy rag, flicking it with his wrist to snap it once across the surface. Music faded in and out, the speakers hidden to even the searching eye but their rhythm permeating everything including steaming cups of coffee. The wood was not affected by these intermingling tones, but its nicked expanse seeming to have weathered more than the shoes now only gently rubbing it lustrous, flat expanse.
x
In the corner, a man nursed a pottery mug of steaming liquid. His eyes were hidden by the shadow of a weathered baseball cap, but they pierced anything accidentally blocking his view of the small shop. His coat was of durable material, but that was only luck, as the previous owner hadn't seemed the type to be in the possession of high-quality articles.
If any watched this tense figure for any length of time they would find themselves slowly turning away, forgetting all about the eyes that seemed to wander over to them and quietly demand obedience. They would go back to their hot milk and scones, completely oblivious to the stray thoughts suddenly in their minds by an unknowable force. And so the stranger stayed inconspicuous, while being the composer of a tiny play. The play's only plot was one of subtle objectives. Stay away.
What could he say? He liked being alone, a hermit at heart. As expected, that was a cold and scarred heart, though steadily beating out a comfortable tune he alone smiled to.
His smile, twisted and rash, fanned his burning soul. Hotter than the lights and certainly hotter than the steaming ink brewing in the pot, his soul burned. To ashes, some would assume, but never did it cross that fine line. It stayed, an intense fire of moulded passion weighed upon him by something he was always trying to understand. If he stumbled upon the formula to his salvation, would he take it? Probably not. While the fires still licked at him he would take it. He relished in their smouldering comfort, however deep it burned his immortal soul.
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