Mr. Valen staggered out of the office building, his face flushed, like the life had been drained out of him.
He wore a large black hoodie and baggy pants, vastly different from what he had worn before.
Clara made a habit of buying clothes in advance to cover her marks, the telltale details of her craft.
People, pedestrians, moved in shadowed clusters around him, collars turned up, faces down. No one looked at the sky anymore.
But Mr. Valen did. In fact, his first instinct was to look up at the sky as one might yearn for salvation, yet what he saw was only an expanse covered by pitch black clouds, blocking the sun.
The land was dim, cold, and grey; it had always been like this since the day he was born.
’I wonder what the sun looks like,’ Mr. Valen thought, rembering how his mother (his birth mother) would tell him about a ti when humans could see the sun.
"The sun was gold," she’d say. "Like fire, but gentle."
’How could fire be gentle?’ he wondered, his eyes narrowed slightly.
The city stretched before him, buildings of damp concrete and flickering neon.
Even taller buildings lood overhead, like gravestones, their windows glazed with condensation, their edges blurred by the ever-present mist.
Streetlights buzzed weakly, casting jaundiced pools of light on the rain-slicked pavents.
Sowhere, a distant siren wailed, a sound so common it had long since faded into the background noise of the urban city.
This was District Fourth-Two of the Eagle Alliance.
Taking a breath, Mr. Valen proceeded to walk, his eyes constantly shifting from one passerby to another.
From his point of view, he could see a dark mist rising from the forms of most people, but none of them were like Clara; the volu was too small, and they had not the demonic shadow she did.
’I guess I could not find one today,’ Mr. Valen thought, but just when he was about to walk by he heard sothing.
A shop window flickering to his left caught his attention, the glow of a television bleeding through the gri-streaked glass.
The screen buzzed with static before resolving into the stern face of a news anchor, their mouth moving soundlessly behind the glass.
[And today we have with us, Pope Urbanus, here to deliver news to the people.]
The screen transitioned to an old man with white hair, who looked sick, with defined bags under his eyes, wrinkles on his face, and beady orbs that seed unable to focus on one particular thing.
’For so reason, I relate to this man,’ Mr. Valen thought upon noticing his appearance curious as to what he had to say.
Turning to the cara, the pope then adjusted his garnt and spoke, but there was no greeting, no warm prayer, just the point, straight and direct.
[I have co to deliver news... Demons walk amongst us, and we do not even know it-]
[Wait your-] the reporter tried to cut in but the pope only continued. [Normally, I would not be worried; demons have always walked amongst us, but at that ti, we had God to protect us. We’ve grown too comfortable in our own skin, our sins unasurable we have even succeeded in almost killing our planet, it is our turn to be wiped out just as God once did in the ti of Noah, God has abandoned us and this ti we are not the ones in the Arch—]
Suddenly, the television cut, leaving behind lines of static.
’How grim... and unsightly,’ Mr. Valen noted and continued his walk, letting out a breath as he muttered, "That pope guy seems to be having a difficult day."
"Valen," a voice suddenly called out, just when Mr. Valen was preparing to flag a taxi.
Upon hearing this voice, the man stilled but did not turn back; rather, he took a short breath, and the most sincere smile known to man appeared on his face, one that made his eyes shimr.
"Vincent," he laughed, finally turning back to see a brow-haired man, with black eyes approaching him.
Besides this man was a dark-haired woman, one with light hazel eyes that seed to peer into one’s soul.
"Valen," she nodded strangely before saying with a smile. "How are you? We hardly see you around anymore after graduation, hope you’ve been well."
"I’m quite good just getting myself together, Sophie," Mr. Valen responded before asking. "How is your sister? May I have her number?"
"Still on that, huh? Gotta respect the dedication, man," Vincent chid from the side, earning him a strong shove from Sophie.
"What Vincent is trying to say, is... Em, well, since my sister rejected you," Sophie began, "It’ll be hard for to give you her number. She’ll get mad."
"Alice can get mad?" Both Mr. Valen and Vincent spoke at the sa ti, causing Sophie to raise a brow.
"No, it’s like I’ve never seen Alice give a fuck, even when she rejected My man Valen, she was like, you’re not interesting enough, h h h," Vincent said, earning himself another elbow shove to his side.
’That hurt,’ the man thought grudgingly, but he said not a word.
"Hey, before I forget, Derald’s dad is throwing a little party, you should co," Vincent chid in. "It might be your last chance to get to know any of our people, not that you were popular to begin with."
"Ohh, a party," Mr. Valen mused, his smile fading slightly. ’I’d rather not, but it’s just once, it might improve my social abilities, since I’m going to college it might be worth gathering a little practical knowledge on... Parties.’
"So are you coming, Valen?" Sophie asked, her eyes studying him.
"Would not miss it for the world, I assu Alice will be there?" Mr. Valen inquired, the smile on his face becoming unnerving with how long he maintained it.
"Em, yeah. I guess, we’ll see you around then." Sophie nodded while walking away, dragging Vincent with her.
’I’d say that went well,’ Mr. Valen thought, the unnatural smile fading from his face entirely as he continued walking towards the bus stop.
Each step was slow, deliberate, as he looked around, taking note of the people around him at all tis.
At that mont he noticed a butterfly, a mix of blue and red, one that imdiately brought about it a feeling of excitent, the sa he’d felt with his therapist.
He then noticed a crowd forming in the distance, blocked by a police periter; the crowd filming with their phones at sothing above.
He then looked up and saw a naked male body, hoisted from the sills of a window. His eyes narrowed, then widened slightly, his orbs shaking as he approached.
But he cared not for the corpse, for from his point of view, the air around it was a whirlpool of red and blue butterflies.
"Hey, stay back," one of the police officers, a man with a balding head, warned, prompting Mr. Valen to halt, never taking his eyes off the body.
Besides him stood a grey-haired man who also noticed Mr. Valen’s fixation with narrowed eyes. "Are you ok kid?" he asked.
It was unknown whether Mr. Valen heard those words, for he did not answer; he just watched, noting the details.
The body hung suspended from the window fra, its arms stretched unnaturally wide by the weight, neck slit by sothing sharp.
The face was in ruin, two hollowed sockets staring down at him, emptily.
The eyes seed to have been removed with such a violence that the orbital bones were chipped and splintered. Dried rivulets of blood streaking down the cheeks like macabre tears.
The ribs were wrenched outward from the back, each one snapped and bent at jagged angles, the skin and muscle peeled away to expose the pale, splintered bone.
Lividity had set in, pooling the blood into deep purples along the lower back and legs where gravity had dragged it.
The skin looked waxy, taking on a grayish pallor, and the first faint signs of bloating had begun to press against the stretched abdon.
The grey-haired man wanted to speak again, but cut himself short when he noticed that Mr. Valen was stretching his arm into the air.
His odd act had long since drawn the attention of everyone around him, sohow commanding silence as he reached for thin air.
From Mr. Valen’s point of view, he stretched out his finger, touching one of the blue and red butterflies, and imdiately the world flashed in his eyes.
The people around him, the grey-haired detective, even the body, all faded, leaving him alone in front of the building.
Suddenly he was no longer himself but soone else, walking beside a man into the building.
«I walk in with him.» Mr. Valen spoke, his breath steady as he followed the man by the side. «He is clueless, helpless; he invited in.»
Upon entering the house, Mr. Valen and the man headed straight for the bedroom, taking off his coat, as the man took off his clothes.
«I take off my cloak to prepare myself, and then I drop my bag on the bed,»
The man then drew closer to her, his steps faltering. He was drunk. No... drugged.
«He is helpless before , and so I begin.»
Mr. Valen then brought out a knife form his form and slit his throat, watching as he staggered to the floor, he then waited, but nothing ca of it.
«He is not the one I’ve been looking for,» Mr. Valen concluded, and walked to his back retrieving a hand saw.
«Then let him serve as a monunt to my cause. I shall free him like a butterfly, his magnificent plight on display for the world. I am the Predator, terd the artist, and this is my prey.»
With that, Mr. Valen drew in a sharp breath and staggered back, his face paling slightly. ’What the hell was that?’ he thought, a wide smile coating his face, his heart pounding in his chest.
anwhile, the detective and everyone around him stood transfixed; they had watched the man before them go on a self-absorbed rant describing the murder.
"Shit," one bystander muttered, eyes narrowed with disgust and sothing unknown.
Other bystanders who had heard expressed similar reactions, appalled, disgusted, or just plain confused.
"Kid," the grey-haired man spoke, Mr. Valen’s form surrounded by the balding police officer, along with a few other police officers.
"You’re coming with us."
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