for dearly loathed @satvrnide
3:07 a.m. the devil's hour.
a black jacket clung to the slayer's slender physique, calloused hands tucked deep into ripped pockets where a pistol slept, waiting to be roused by a monster's war cry. his hair was soaked from the heavy rainfall, silver tendrils drooping over tired eyes. swift, yet silent in steps, leon took the winding backstreets to observe the ethereal being himself.
the heavenly being remained nameless, another enigma for the slayer to reckon with. and oh, how he secretly desired bloody resolutions like countess bathory and her crimson baths. mental notes were extracted then on the other male: reappearing location, appearance, body language. he'd been doing this for weeks ever since he had witnessed the creature while on his way to interrogate an unnatural.
the mere presence of the stranger--despite the distance between them--was so alluring, stimulating even, to leon. if only he knew he was hunting an angel. did that make him evil? did that make him a sinner? perhaps he'd come to that realization later in time. for now, the slayer was struck with utter curiosity and determination to capture the creature. or at least... find out his intentions in this city that was infested with red-eyed rats and roaches chewing on flesh.
leon had forgotten to breathe then when the chance came, but his fingers furled tighter 'round his pistol, like a catholic and their sacred rosary in hand. he lunged when the creature’s back was facing him, and so with his human strength he forced him against the door of the building the other male had meant to enter, “you’re not like the rest--tell me why you’re here.” leon exhaled into his ear, “now.”