Midnight, In the Storm [on temporary hiatus]

Eleven: Reproached reunion

The chamber was unmistakably cramped with loud-mouthed low-lives and lurking felons. He could clearly overhear the cuss words spilling from gaping braggarts - all brash minds drunk on delusion. The lone hooded male swathed in battle black wanted to storm in and crush every single one of those pests.

But despite the tempting satisfaction tugging at his restrained temper, the wanted lawbreaker remained where he was.

He stood by out in the biting chill by the concealed door, tucked in the crook of a shallow alcove where shadows and convenient lighting shielded the entrance of any passerby's wandering gaze - a screen that averted unwelcomed civilians' curiosity after nightfall.

The muted clamouring was like a swarm of insects buzzing through his head - he was high on alert, however visibly slack his posture was.

Keir could tell, as he leisurely strolled down the deserted street and closed in on the obscured entry, where the figure brooded. He grimaced under his mask, anticipating the bite in the young swindler's words.

"Finally showing your masked face here, fellow colleague?", the male's voice lowered with venom, "Or should I say... Blythe. You two-faced traitor."

He cursed under his breath, not stopping his tracks.

"You're none better, Raziel", Keir naturally countered by way of greeting, not sparing a glance at the speaker.

The air shifted, apprehension a thick smog setting the two's nerves on high. Great. Just fan-fucking-tastic.

"What are you doing here?"

"You're in no position to ask of that," Keir halted, his expressionless face inches away from the reeking rust of the door. His eyes narrowed, "rather, I should be asking you that."

Of all the occasions in which their encounter could've taken place - it had to be that jamble of a night that Keir met the runaway swindler.

"I am not going in - and I'll cut to the point, Blythe," he tugged the fabric veiling his lower face off, uncovering his sharp, elegantly fox-like features - that, Keir knew, had once left an unending trail of broken hearts and bankrupted victims - but that was before the three wicked scars carving down his face, from his right eyelid to bottom cheek, happened. It had been a miracle his vision remained unscathed.

Raziel's watchful gray eyes flitted around the area, looking out for any viable eyewitnesses, "I'm not here to waste your time - I'm here to warn you of a peril you're associated with."

"And I've never harmed a soul in my life."

"Blythe. Time is fleeting-"

Desperation rang it's honesty in his hushed tone, yet Keir didn't wait for him to go on. Stone-faced, he knocked a code and swung the rickety door open as it unlatched from the inside - and wordlessly swept into the secluded tavern.

The entire hall fell silent within three of his steps.

Even the inebriated men, they stilled and ceased their blabbering, mouths either hanging agape or clenched tight. The sight of illegal substances, stolen riches, hidden firearms and gambled money littering the place was one of many others Keir was used to, having learned to pass by coldly since his early days.

Keir didn't stop walking, his expression an undecipherable storm as he pocketed his hands and made for the opposing end of the hall.

The place reeked of booze and smoke... and something worse. He frowned - and a majority of the grown men, shameless criminals, bowed their heads. Whether in terror, respect or both - the quivering and fiddling hands of the sober men told him it was the former - he didn't give a damn.