Thin lips parted to release a puff of smoke and nimble fingers pulled the cigarette away, dashing it against the pavement with the soft scuff of a shoe. Bright eyes flashed forward, out towards the writhing mass of life on the small fraction of sidewalk he could see from his shadow-laden section of alleyway. There were so many of them; men, women, children - every step they took was a thread in the quilt of their individual histories, and he envied them, almost. Almost, but not enough to make a difference.

From there he would wait and he would watch; he would be here for a while, stationary and completely still save for the flexing of his fingers around the small viles in his pocket. He wasn't fond of this part, was kind of impatient, would have rather run head-on into this... but that's how people got caught, and if he was good at anything it was not getting caught.

And hunting. He was particularly good at hunting, perhaps better than he was at avoiding detection. Because he was a nice guy, really - usually - on the outside, at least. His hazel eyes were warm and friendly, inviting; speech was smooth and casual; personality was particularly charming. He was likeable, intelligent, confident - there was no reason you shouldn't want to strike up a conversation with him, get to know him, maybe do lunch on occassion. And that was his real talent; he knew how to pull people in.

It was his smile that threw people off, really - that was one thing he couldn't fix, no matter how hard he tried. It was wrong, it was awful, twisted, horrible - there was something so terrible about it, something so off that it made you shiver, wish you hadn't tried talking to him at all, and you wanted to run and you wanted to get as far away from him as you could - but it was too late. By the time you saw that smile you were marked, branded - you were his, and he wasn't going to let you get away.

No one ever got away.

He didn't give a damn about them, any of them; didn't care about the wife or the husband or the kids, the mother or father or sister or brother, the cat or the dog or the fish, the job, the house, nothing - all that mattered to him was the blood that pulled through their veins and the pretty way it spilled like paint as his knife dragged along the flesh of their throat, the way their bodies thrashed and their hands clutched and their eyes rolled back into their heads as their windpipe collapsed beneath his skilled hands.

Skilled or not, though, he'd never done anything in this particular way before - and he was excited, he was anxious, full of anticipation. He couldn't let it get the better of him, because that would mess up everything, and he couldn't afford to risk this, not after all the preparations he'd made, but he couldn't help letting his mind wander. Who would be the best to choose? The small, mousy woman who looked about her as if she suspected something awful of everyone who strode by her? Perhaps the spoiled child that tugged on his mother's hand, urging her in the direction opposite of where she herself wanted to go, just waiting for the eventual surrender so he could have that one toy he so desperately needed? Or the young man with the mobile phone practically glued to his head, face distraught as he juggled his overly-demanding boss and the girlfriend he knew wasn't good enough for him and yet refused to leave, for fear of never finding the one he was truly meant to be with?

So many choices - and his lips curled in that horrid way they so often did - and he only had so much time, they only had so much time, and he had to be discrete, though no one ever asked. He would sidle up to he or she and initiate small-talk, lean in like he was about to reveal a secret and instead lower the point of his needle into their skin, force a rush of drug that would keep them on their feet long enough to leave with him, to collapse only in the shelter of that dark alleyway, and then he would transport them - then he would start his game.

And still no one would ask. They would know, they would sense that he was up to something, something they didn't want any part of - and they would hope and wish and pray that he would spare them, trying so hard to feel pity or remorse for those who did fall victim, all the while thinking 'better them than us,' and they would go about their lives, trying to convince themselves that maybe he was just planning a party or something innocent.

Nothing he ever did was innocent.

Faintly he wondered how his partners were doing - if they were smart enough avoid getting caught, if they'd taken his threats seriously, if they'd managed to recruit any players; and slowly he slid from the shadows, slinking round the corner of the alley like a cat. He moved seamlessly through the crowd, eyes trained, target set... all the while wearing that awful smile.

Surely he would enjoy this, no matter the outcome...