He lit his tenth cigarette since standing to wait in the dark, unlit entrance of a graffiti-written building that had seen better days. Three hours hence and he was still in the same position he assumed when he arrived with only his arm moving the addictive tobacco to his mouth to be inhaled and exhaled in glorious welcome. For many, waiting endless hours with only your thoughts to keep you company was agony, but for him, it felt natural, not forced. In this age of instantaneous results and rampant attention deficit disorders that afflicted the masses, the benefits of silent hours where one learned of oneself, was now a thing of the past that could only be purchased in the forms of self-help books or meditative classes or yoga. He smirked at the idiocy of it all. A thing that was free and yours alone - your inner thoughts, your mind - now could only be accessed through the help of another.
But not for him. He was patient and needed the silence, so much so that he did not own any technology of any kind - no television, no radio, no computer, no phone, no ipads, nothing - that would distract him from his thoughts. He lived a monastic life with only books to keep his mind engaged. But he was also a successful chameleon, easily assimilating himself into the environments of his assignments. He could talk their talk and act as if he too lived by the material, by the instantaneous now and could lower himself to their intellectual levels - this being the most challenging part of his job - all in the name of capturing the most elusive.
He was the agent of choice for the most sensitive of undercover assignments. In reality, he was nothing less than a professional criminal and executioner who could close whatever despicable assignment given; his colleagues could never match his cunning, intellectual and amoral superiority and thus, once given an assignment, the job was as good as done. No, he was not bragging. The answer was simple, really. He was never encumbered with morality or guilt or heart simply because he was not one of them. He was not human - not fully, anyway. He was a hybrid, born of human mother and un-human questionable father and early in life he learned he possessed skills that no other human possessed. It was a gift but, at the same time, it was a curse.
He heard the hinges of the door across the street creak and saw her exit. He flicked the unfinished cigarette at one of the rats at the curb that was busy gnawing away at something indefinable and followed after her. Even the rotting odor of garbage could not hide her smell. Yes, she smelled like him. And he had finally found her. The one who afflicted his dreams and whose face he had been unable to discern in each slumbered spell was finally within his reach. His heart raced with excitement of finally meeting one of his own, the one whose hidden face had captured his heart and soul. The only one he would die for.
She suddenly smelled him and came to an abrupt stop. He smelled her fear mount in controlled panic. She turned to face him and he gasped; she was even more beautiful than he could have ever imagined, her face sending unwilling electrical currents into his. If only she knew that she need not fear him. If only she knew how much he loved her - he, the one incapable of emotion - loved her and would die for her. But she had smelled the evil that resided within him. She couldn't - wouldn't - discern the love, for her fear denied her so. Yet, he was not evil, not in his eyes anyway. Everything he had done was because of professional assignments or because his DNA begged release.
She began to retreat slowly, her breathing becoming more shallow with each backward step.
He reached out his hand to her, "Please, don't be afraid..." But the second he touched her, she vanished into the air, leaving her scent of lilac behind. "No!" It had taken years to find her and now she would hide herself from him again. She had the power to vanish without trace; a power he did not possess, and thus finding her had never been easy.
He closed his hands into fists clawing his nails into his palms making them bleed. He tried to control the anger that was bubbling to the surface, tried hard to contain the essence of who he was but to no avail. He quickly snatched a rat from its feast, snapped its neck and ate its head. Panting in anger and agony, he tried to sate that which was surfacing, that which led him to kill again and again.