Ｆｌｏｒａ Ｎｏｉｒ ᴋᴛʜ sᴇʀɪᴇs

𝕿𝕳𝕽𝕰𝕰

Someone was walking aimlessly through the bustling streets of Moscow, the person eyes were cold and scanning the crowd the pale daylight casting long shadows from the towering buildings. The person hated the night, because according to him Night was for the weak, for those who lurked in the dark to hide their deeds but the person preferred the daylight, where everyone could see him, but no one truly noticed. He moved without purpose, hands stuffed into his worn hoodie's pockets, blending effortlessly with the crowd. Nobody gave him a second glance. He was just another people,  lost in the chaos of the city. But only he knew who was he, he watched how people moved, how they smiled, how their hands fidgeted or stayed still. He found it fascinating to studying them, imagining how easily he could tear apart their carefully constructed lives. His eyes were telling a different story cold and distant, like a predator on the hunt. He was looking for someone, something that could satisfy the quiet rage in his chest.

Then he saw something which raised his interest. An old man, frail and bent, his wrinkled hands clutching a cane as he shuffled across the street. The person stopped in his tracks. His jaw tightened. He hated old people, every single one of them they reminded him of things he didn’t want to remember, past humiliations, sorrows, pain, everything.  The sight of the old man’s hunched back stirred something dark inside him.

The person followed the old man, his steps light but deliberate. The crowd didn’t notice him, his eyes locked on the man. He didn’t know the man’s name, and did he care?? hell no.. To him, the man was just another symbol of everything he despised, and that was enough for him.

The old man moved slowly, his every step a struggle against his frailty. He stopped briefly by a fruit stall, speaking to the vendor with a voice so soft it was almost drowned out by the noise of the street, he watched from a short distance his hands still shoved into his pockets.

As he stood there, memories began to bubble to the surface, unbidden and unwelcome a sharp voice from his past, an aged face filled with disdain.

"Useless boy, no better than a stray dog!"

The words stung even now, though the speaker was long dead, but the hate remained. It always remained. The old man turned and continued down a quieter street, the bustling crowd thinning out. The person followed him with calm and ice expression. This wasn’t impulsive. It was methodical. He studied the man’s movements, the slight tremor in his hands, the way he leaned on the cane for support.

"Easy prey."

He thought, Finally, they reached a secluded spot, an alley where the noise of the city faded into a distant hum. The person quickened his pace, his footsteps silent against the cobblestones.

"Do you need help, sir?"

He called out, his voice feigning concern the old man turned around his lined face lighting up with gratitude.

''Oh, thank you, young man. Just an old fool trying to get home."

He said in a joking way and chuckled the person stepped closer, his hands still in his pockets. His mind raced, not with doubt, but with anticipation his hatred felt like fire in his chest, burning brighter with every step.

"You remind me of someone,"

He said in a quite and steady tone while stepping towards him and some deep lines appeared on that old man's forehead.