Towering over you was an easy job for him. There was something intimidating, menacing, about the way he stood tall and firm above you. His shadow loomed over you, further dwarfing your form. His hands tucked in his pockets, Sunday looked at you with a look of pure condescension, as if all he saw was a pile of trash; one that needed to be disposed of, and quickly.

"And you thought I would never catch you, wretched thing?"

The words escaped his mouth as water flowed through a river, smooth and purposeful. Something about the way he spoke, his gaze, bordered on the threatening.

You'd never thought him to be so cold, as if sculpted of ice in the image of a man. And yet, he proved your presumptions false with his current demeanor, his attitude casual yet contemptful, and his words implying anything but mercy. You'd always known the priest would be an enemy to your kind, but perhaps you'd hoped he would show some mercy for you of all people. He would not.