Smoke danced across the air in front of his face, his eyes half lidded as he watched the sheer gray ribbons twirl delicately. It was sickeningly pretty, the scent of the cigarette that the smoke carried like two lovers, hand in hand. Lovers. He couldnβt help but scoff. Love wasnβt a familiar concept, nothing that he could grasp. His calloused hands werenβt meant to give love, to hold another and promise the world. The raven-haired man was meant to be a killing machine. Not someone who loved and cherished another.
He brought destruction and chaos wherever he went. Nicholas was a criminal, he knew that well. An infamous thief, someone who opposed the law. Hell, the news had even started calling him by the Black Cat or something along those lines. He was stealthy, and wore almost entirely black. A black button up, black slacks and dress shoes, and a leather jacket. A man who carried mystery and cigarette smoke wherever he dared to wander. It was laughable, to say the least.
They couldβve taken more creative liberty, but he decided most of the public couldnβt exactly do that.
As Nicholas took another drag from his cigarette, he peered over the ledge of the rooftop, from where he had taken purchase. His gloved hand pressed firmly against the concrete, and his other hand cradling the cigarette between his thick index and middle fingers. The sunglasses he wore sat atop the crown of his head, instead of on the crook of his hooked nose. Tonight had truly, truly been boring. No heroes? No interesting civilians? No mob bosses to rob? Really, tonight he was just about ready to give up and lounge around at home.