"Monsieur, would you like a good night?"
A young girl - she seemed about fifteen or sixteen - stood, waiting for a response from the tall, black shadow that stood before her. Cheap perfume and makeup seemed to be abundant on her, and her ripped, inexpensive dress was thin and obviously not enough to protect her from the cold. It was easy to tell that she had not taken proper care of herself in weeks, as her hair was a mess and her teeth - well, the one that were left - were yellowed and crooked. Blue veins protruded from her cheeks and forehead, and bone stood out prominently in her neck. Under her eyes were dark circles of purple, and scratches marred a good portion of her face. She was, in all senses, a prostitute.
What she wanted of him, the black, evil being, was a mystery. He, as a rule, never interacted with her kind. He had promised long ago that he would not steep so low. So, why in the world was this girl trying to take him to bed?
"Leave me be, mademoiselle. I am not interested."
She pouted, and took a step towards him. "Are you sure, monsieur? My prices are rather cheap tonight, as an early Christmas present."
"I am sure," he replied, turning in place and continuing on his way. The crunch of the snow behind him made it clear that she was running after him. He hurried his pace, and she did as well. She called, "Do not be so quick! Is there a wife you are scared of betraying? I will not tell a soul!"
He whipped around, annoyance flickering in his eyes. "What is your problem? Have you no other customers to chase?"
"I am interested in someone new," she answered, "and I'm sure that you are, as well."
He sighed in irritation. "No, I do not have a wife. That is not the problem here. The problem is that I am simply trying to go to the market, and a whore is bothering me. Does that satisfy you?"
She unbuttoned the top button of her dress. "Are you sure?"
"Yes, yes! I am completely sure! Leave me alone!" He again attempted to make his way to the market, and again she stopped him. This time, however, she upped her tactics by standing in his way. "I want you to think about it a little. Are you completely sure?"
"You're new, aren't you?" He narrowed his eyes at her. It wasn't that hard to figure out, anyway. No prostitute in her right mind would chase a man and ask 'Are you sure?' a billion times. Also, all the other "lovely ladies" had heard rumors about him, and liked to stay out of his way. Apparently, it was said that whoever approached the "Shadow-Man" would be struck dead before dawn. Even thinking of that story made him laugh, the falseness of it being so blatantly clear that he wondered why anyone would even believe such an outrageous story. The plus side of the story, though, was that nobody ever annoyed him and wasted his time. Well, never had they done so until now.
She bowed her head in shame. "Was it that obvious?"
"Yes, it was. Now, leave me alone, or I swear that I will kill you." He glared at her venomously. She stood in place, petrified. His lasso slipped into his hand somehow, and he raised it menacingly. "Did I not clarify? I want you to go now."
The girl gulped before spinning around and running off down the street. Stupid girl; of all the other men on the street, she just had to pursue him? Didn't the other women already tell her the tale? Or... was the entire thing a joke? Perhaps she knew that nobody ever approached him, and so went up to him in order to rub it in his face? He cursed her existence. Even if the theory was still just a theory, it could still be true. And with his luck, it probably was.
He stopped in front of a short, green building on the Rue Plumet. The paint was peeling off in several sections, and one of the window shutters had fallen off long ago, but otherwise it looked fine. The door was locked, but it didn't stop him from entering as he had done for years before. He retrieved his skeleton key from where it was stashed in his coat pocket, and quickly and with ease unlocked the door.
A light snoring sound reached his ears, but he paid it no heed. It was familiar to him, and it was good news, too. It meant that the shop owner was asleep and would not bother him. After all, it would be such a pity to kill the poor man and have to find a new shop to break into every night in order to steal food. Really.
Truthfully, it wasn't stealing. He would always leave a sou or two for the manager, and he would never take much. All he ever needed was a loaf of bread to last a couple weeks. He had grown up on a limited diet, and he had kept the habit. Some things never change, he had realized some time in his life. It was true, too, whether it was by his own decision or by forced circumstances. For example, when he was a child and still lived with his mother, she would throw Sasha's scraps at him and tell him to eat them. Later, at the gypsy camp, the only food he could eat was the crumbs that Javert had missed. However, in the Mazenderan, the Khanum had made sure he was given everything he wanted. Yet he still ate little. The same situation was with Giovanni in Rome.
Collecting what he needed, he left the sou pieces on the counter and left, locking the door on his way out - it would be unfair to allow two thieves to the man's store in one night, after all. He strolled down the street, bread in hand, and hummed a tune to himself. If it had been daytime, he would have looked like any other normal person.
A shrill scream brought him out of his slight daze. Curious, he followed the voice to a street with a dozen or so women. They were gathered around something, but he could not tell what exactly it was that they were looking at. He found his feet bringing him a couple steps closer until he could hear some of what they were saying.
"Oh my God... the Shadow-Man got Fantine!"
"Fantine died years ago, Marie! This is obviously Diane!"
"No, I'm Diane! I think this is Cholera!"
"That's a disease, you blithering idiot! I think it's plain to see that this is Madeleine!"
He stepped out of the darkness in order to inspect the body and find out who the girl was that died - for someone must have died, as they spoke as if she had. From behind the crowd, he peered over the shoulders. He chuckled silently.
The lady in front of him froze and went deathly pale. "Marie," she nudged the woman next to her, "I think the Shadow-Man is behind me."
Marie glanced quickly, preoccupied with the dead body, before exclaiming, "Mother of God!"
The rest of the group looked and jumped out of their skins. "It's the Shadow-Man! He is going to kill us!"
He glared at each of them, one at a time. Each shook with fear greater than they had ever experienced. The thing they had feared most of all was standing before them, and looked every bit as menacing as they had imagined, if not more. The one called Diane whimpered, "Please don't kill me. I didn't do anything! Take Marie instead; nobody likes her!"
He found it fit to speak finally, and nobody interrupted. "Ladies, I have no intention to hurt another one of you this night. However, this may change if you are not out of my sight in five seconds."
The girls looked at each other and screamed with fear yet again. He drawled, "One."
They glanced at the body, as if contemplating something. Deciding against whatever it was, they ran down the street towards the Rue Plumet. As the last girl rounded the corner, yelling her head off, he reached the number two.
"Well, that was easy," he smiled. He then turned back to the dead girl. "Tsk, tsk, little girl, you should have left me alone. The Shadow-Man strikes when you least expect it. Even when the Shadow-Man isn't the Shadow-Man. Still, how were you killed?"
He knelt down and examined her neck. There were red marks and scratches. He sighed, "You were strangled? What a terrible way to die. At least you put up a good fight - well, obviously not good enough," he snickered.
Then, he checked her pockets - she had apparently sewed them on herself - in attempt to find the motive or any other clue that would clear some of the murk out of the mystery. He had not cared for her, not in the least bit - but it was fun to play detective sometimes and test out his deduction and reasoning skills. Besides, if for nothing else, it would add to his vast knowledge.
Her pockets were empty. "Little girl, this is quite an oddity. You have but one dress, and there is nothing in the pockets? Unless..." he pondered aloud, "a customer killed you and stole all your money. Poor girl; this wouldn't have happened if I had said 'yes'..."
He straightened up, standing at his full intimidating height. He walked down the street, away from the Rue Plumet and away from the girl. He did not care - why should he? - and he was not going to act like it. Yes, it was a shame that such a young girl had been taken by Death so early, but it was not in his power to change that, and it was not his responsibility to feel bad. People were murdered every day, be it by his own hands or another's. If he cried and mourned every time he found a dead body, he would be a living fountain. Yes, it was good not to be so sensitive about these things.
And on he continued in his life.