A cold night for a cold event. . .
Damien, or Gabriel as he now called himself, carelessly walked through an alley, kicking anything that caught his attention. At the end of it he paused and looked to his right, then his left, quickly. Above him, a street light flickered on and off, illuminating him for fractions of seconds at a time. He then proceeded to cross the street, appearing to be skipping along and warping across it in an old movie type style. Darkness enveloped him again as he entered the next alley, and he repeated the process. This was done for nearly half of an hour, until he came to one particular street. The light above was stable and bright. It lit the entire block, and now he was completely visible.
From the black shoes, thick, baggy blue jeans, and black sweatshirt, was the ever-so-conspicuous hood. It obscured the sight of his face that was bare, leaving only a gas mask for visual possibility. The mask itself was also black, blending in with his entire person. At the top of it, two circular lenses were situated for him to see from. The rings poked out slightly, producing a slight bug-eyed look. Below, a large muzzle cylinder protruded, and from that, another one on right side of it. In a rhythm, a deep foggy smoke exhaled from the side cylinder, expanding and dissipating into the night air, broken within moments by the light above. During the inhale, a slight sound of air being sucked into a small tube was made. On the left side of the main cylinder was a capped nub. Overall, his appearance was very sleek, very suspicious, and very malignant.
Continuing, he crossed the street and found his way to a boarded apartment building. Taking a hand from his jacket pocket, he slapped the wood, looked to the ground, and began to breath heavier. The exhaled fog was more occurring, and pushed out of the mask faster than before. Within moments, the wood burned an orange red, black, then gray and fell to the ground as ash. The event spread throughout the planks, one by one as he touched them, and cleared the wooden door. For the door itself he grabbed the handle. It turned a bright red and he opened it. As he did, liquid poured from the deadlock slot in the frame. He had melted it.
Inside was dark. It was convenient, but still not the best cover. For what he was up against, he'd need every bit of aloofness he could get. With that in mind, he stopped in the maroon-themed lobby and disappeared, completely invisible. Then, just as he had, quiet, small footsteps ran in a string to the door on the left, which, judging by the plaque on it, was to the staircase. It opened, making a pitching squeal, and closed behind the steps.
On the sixth floor he opened the door as silently as he could, stepping into the rugged hallway. Immediately to his right he spotted the door; room one hundred fifteen. A small, scared voice could be heard from within it. He approached, and like the front door of the complex, melted the locks. Then, he opened it, casually walking inside, completely unnoticeable by visual means.
In the living room was a woman. She was relatively young, perhaps twenty four as he was, and good looking. A nice body, cute face, and beautiful brunette hair. On the couch, she swayed back and forth, forward and backward, cupping her head in her hands. Whispers fluidly escaped her, and from what he could tell, were of her fears. He walked around her, still listening to the cries and wishes for redemption. Nearing her back, he became visible again, losing concentration. However, it didn't matter. She was too occupied to notice the deadly figure behind her. Taking a knife from his pocket, he cautiously took the blade from the handle, showing an extending, five inch long, jagged knife. Cocking his arm back and above his head, he swung, plunging the knife into the back of her neck.
A cold night for a cold event. . .
