A/N: Hihi! I find it funny that both of my Chapter 2 updates are Malik chapters. Hehehe I must dedicate this one to LadyBlackwell, too. I figured I would have to introduce Malik into this fic, and she gave me the inspiration. I love you baby! ;) This chappie is light on the sheer horror of the previous one...I hope that's not too disappointing...There shall be more to come I promise! ^^

Warning: Some brief language. Dasssss ittttttt

Malik stood before his floor length mirror. He wore a deep cut black v-neck, a pair of black skinny jeans, black heeled boots, and a pair of gold earnings—the only adornment. The shirt was just small enough to reveal a sliver of his bronzed abdominals; it was a veritable shaft of sunlight—a ray of hope—piercing so many forbidding thunderclouds. In response to the image he encountered, Malik formed a derisive smile that brimmed with bitterness, contempt, and twisted delight. Bitterness: because he was a joke; contempt: because he perpetuated the joke; twisted delight: because he loved bringing himself to this. It was a blatant charade, his dressing this way. Yet, no one appeared to see beyond the slim form, the exposed flesh. He considered his life a slow death, a never-ending funeral; black was his corollary color.

There was a time when he believed that life had meaning, dreams were possible to achieve, and suffering wasn't the hallmark of existence. He quickly destroyed such naivete. However, one desire did endure from his starry-eyed youth: the desire for perfection. If he couldn't reach an honorable perfection, he would get it's reciprocal, that is, a depraved perfection. Malik sought the most morally bankrupt person he could; it was an obsession. That's why he frequented these parties. It seemed the slime of the earth oozed onto the dance floor. No one fit his concept, though. They always ended up being weak, afraid, and guilty; they endeavored with all their meager consciousnesses to evade their hideous nature. He wanted unabashed acceptance, a man who spilled blood and bathed in it besides. He would succeed, it was imperative. Malik fetched his Gucci clutch, and was out the door in a swift stride.

A friend of a friend of a friend—some yuppie by the name of Yami Something-or-other—was throwing a soiree at his Upper West Side apartment. Malik cringed with disgust upon entering: the place was a repugnant hodgepodge of baroque, rococo, and modernist furniture. He was greeted with a pathetically sanctimonious air by a somewhat short, tri-color haired man,

"And you would be?"

"Ishtar. A mutual friend of ours invited me."

"Oh...who?"

"Who the fuck cares? Are you gonna let me in?"

"Hm. I guess you act every bit the bitch you dress as," the host, apparently Yami, sneered at him whilst stepping aside to admit Malik.

"That's so clever! Maybe if you grew a couple of inches I might consider your poorly constructed epithet with an iota of my conscious," Malik returned as he breezed past the slighter fellow without granting him his gaze.

He beelined for the bar, realizing that enduring the anemic music and even more anemic conversations he heard would require a heavy buzz. He ordered a vodka on the rocks, downing it with ease before asking for another. It was the only liquor he drank, for it was clean and sharp, like the stabbing of a sword. The second he nursed with a tad more decorum as he cast his contemptuous gaze across the sea of imposters. The fashion was a season or so out of tune and the laughter was several decibels too loud. Mmmmm. Just the way I like it. He made a nest in the corner of the living room with an ideal view of the doorway. After half an hour of making half-ditched attempts at maintaining conversations with the people who so desperately accosted him and keeping an eye on the stream of shit that poured through the entrance, he was suddenly rewarded for his patience.

It was the mane of silver that first struck him. The manner with which the hall light refracted off the man's hair blinded Malik's eyes as would the high-beams of a trailing car one sees in his rearview mirror. It was the attire he noticed next. The pale man wore a pair of tattered jeans and a mostly unbuttoned dress shirt. The way he dressed seemed to suggest an effortless casualness, as if the man had nothing to hide. Malik knew better; he knew the clothing was a way of saying that the wearer had everything to hide, and a dare for the person who understood this to unravel the enigma. Finally, the power of the man's eyes reached him. They were empty and simultaneously brimming with knowledge. And there was a ferocious glimmer that lurked in the periphery, like the illumination of a lighthouse experienced by a distant ship through a diaphanous fog. Those dirt colored eyes turned to Malik's lilac ones with a startling alacrity. It was a contest—a contest Malik desperately wanted to lose, yet refused to allow himself to. The man simply smirked and walked away, blending in with the crowd and mocking Malik's attempt at strength. The blonde was left breathless. He could feel the danger molesting his skin, leaving goosebumps in its wake. Finally, he met a force worth challenging. He...he's the one...I know it. My bones tell me so. He's evil. I know it. My bones tell me so. And soon, he is going to unleash that evil on me. And I shall sip perfection from a gilded champagne flute. Oh yes, Albino. I shall be the substance beneath your malicious tread. And both of us will smile demented smiles that flicker wretchedly in pale moonlight. Malik made his way to the patio and hoped his new friend would follow. He rested his sweating glass of vodka on the balcony, instead drinking up the infinite lights of the city he encountered. This always makes me feel so fucking small. I love it. Then inexplicably, he felt as though he should turn around. He about-faced to the Albino. Malik parted his mouth as if to say something, but instead formed a coy grin.

"You're quite beautiful." Malik couldn't help but laugh at this annunciation. It was the most obvious thing anyone could have said, and consequently the last thing he expected that stranger to say. The man smirked in turn, "If you understand that, then it would seem I made the right decision to talk to you."

"Indeed. I'm like no man you've ever met, or could hope to meet."

"That's quite the promise."

"It is. But I know that you are confident of my ability to pull off such a statement."

"Really?"

"Yes. 'Cause you didn't sneer, and didn't walk away. Your face did not change at all, as though my voice and the message behind it were a gentle breeze."

The man closed the distance between them, approaching within centimeters of Malik's face. "You're a smart one...you should know, then, that I'm dangerous," he said in a heated whisper.

"I do. It excites me," Malik replied with a simple, one shouldered shrug.

"Isn't there some apropos bromide like, 'Those who play with fire get burned?'"

"Oh, darling! I'm counting on you scorching my skin!"

The man emitted a primeval moan, as if responding to a quality he had been seeking subconsciously and just realized. "What's your name, Man in Black?"

"Tsk tsk. I thought you would know better than to ask that. I guess I struck a chord. But. I will give you my number." Malik drew a pen from his clutch and traced his number on the translucent skin of the man's right forearm. "I hope you won't disappoint me again, Albino."

The man savagely seized Malik's left wrist he turned to leave, "Who said you could leave, pretty boy?"

"I did."

The pale stranger snickered in turn, relinquishing Malik's wrist, "The Perfect Prey."

"The Perfect Predator." And with that, Malik sashayed out of the apartment and into the nebulous night.

A/N: Sorry if that was short...but I wanted the Malik/Bakura dynamic to play out slow and smooth. No Marik or Ryou in this one. But they shall be back soon!

And I needed a character to throw a party, so I picked Yami. I kinda thought his cameo was hilarious. Bahahaha

I apologize to any fangirls who were harmed by this portrayal. Hehe

R&R por favor! ^^