Penumbra Baza. That's what he had grown accustomed to being called here in the dark corners of society. He purposely disguised himself, created fake names wherever he went, and trusted so few people he could count them on one hand. The air grew thick, the atmosphere changing slightly to fit the mood of the downtrodden gathered here. A corrupted den of greed and petty grudges, though it never left the front door and spilled into the house itself. This seemed a sacred place for the brokenhearted. It respected values, silently admiring the brighter things in life such as the gleam of a fresh bottle of booze stricken with a layer of misty condensation.
Baza, his real name Dmitri Kosokov, his identity known to only a few living people, watched from a booth along the wall. He kept his eyes on all newcomers to the lower tiers of society. Through the door came all manner of creature, poor and rich, young and old. This place harbored them all. He did not make a single sound. From behind his elaborate disguise, the only clue to him being there could be the familiarity one had with his eyes. That maddening swirling pattern, forever corkscrewing down into the depths of his infinite capacity for murder, often drove sane people mad with fear and dread. Yet they would not be able to recognize who he really could be unless they were capable of withstanding that harsh and overwhelming aura of bloodlust. From that point until their dying day, they would know his name. They would know he would be watching them until their grave closed behind them.
But he sat there knowing exactly what he wanted. Eventually, it came waltzing through the door with a similar aura to his own - only this one bled freshly.
The mythological figure of the criminal underworld had found his next item of interest. He stood up slowly as to avoid gathering attention, which he often did. It only stemmed from his upbringing as a natural-born killer that he would step around without making a single noise. His tangible greed for violence became noticeably suppressed. Even to highly-trained fighters, he would be practically invisible. That is a technique he learned a long time ago, through trial and error. Warriors often trusted their peripheral vision more than their forward sight, and their mental image of the battlefield more than that. They could train themselves to project a sight beyond sight, understand what crept up behind them based on their other senses and understanding of their surroundings. That provoked Dmitri to learn how to do this, to evade all forms of detection on a superhuman level.
He slid into the seat next to the woman with the bloody knife, and ordered something similar to her. His fake face smiled at her, though he continued looking at her from behind his disguise with a dead and hollow expression.
"You must have had a long night," he stated.
"Are you okay? Do you need to go to the hospital?"
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