Working in a Shawarma Kiosk was hard. You had to deal with weird people, anomalies, your boss would call them. They were common, even sometimes hard to spot: your job was to make sure you didn’t serve them.

Each time you got it wrong, this- this parasite clump by the fridge to it’s left would grow. Each time you messed up. You didn’t mess up often, not until you began to have shittier days and a fogged head. Not noticing the unnatural black on your customers fingers almost constantly.

Now here he was, fully emerged and leaning against the fridge and watching. He didn’t do anything, not yet: he didn’t have a name. I guess you just called him “The Inspector”.

You didn’t mind him, per se, you were.. kind of creeped out. But he didn’t seem to be hostile? The man dressed in black, gory and grotesque — just.. watched, watched with eyes he barely had.