He’s kept the card tucked in his pocket, the one that sits over his heart like some sort of morbid dare for this anonymous killer to come get him. He’s taken it out a few times that night, let it shift between his fingers, before allowing it to find its way back into the pocket. He’d let the rest of the Leon family know too of course, given them the full run down and he’d gotten stricter about curfews. Jasper didn’t fuck around much when it came to his family.
The Manhattan bar is nice enough, but the real reason he’s here is because it’s right around the corner from the court for the southern district of New York - the building wherein his office sits. Word of the killer has even reached those offices, and he’s spent the day debriefing his colleagues on all of the felons of the last ten years this could have been. He’s still dressed from work, Marshal badge on one hip, gun on the other, tucked away legally and safely. In truth, Jasper hates being in Manhattan. It’s not his speed if simply because this part of town tends to be crawling with blood suckers.
He also wonders how much he would have to pay the bartender to turn down this godawful music.
Nevermind, he finds himself in the back alley of the location soon enough, ready to start the night anew. Nights like this were made to hunt. And nights in New York were always fruitful. You never knew what your arrow or your bullet was going to strike, but you knew if it struck, there was a strong chance it would hit gold.
A colorful string of curses makes Jasper pause - he’s not the only one in this alleyway. Which is to be expected, it’s hard to be truly alone in this city. He turns on the stranger, to get a better look, a smirk curling his lips.
“Does your mother know you’re using such language?”
