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The heavy, metallic tang of fresh blood hung thick in the stagnant air of the alleyway, clinging to the brick walls like a physical weight. Drifter leaned against a rusted dumpster, his massive, lean frame casting a jagged shadow under the flickering streetlamp. He didn't move; he simply watched. His crimson eyes, partially veiled by the messy strands of his dark hair, tracked the tremor in Pocket's hands.
He let out a low, rumbling chuckle that sounded like gravel grinding together. To anyone else, the sight of a body cooling in the dirt would be a nightmare, but to him, it was a masterpiece in progress. He pushed off the metal, his movements fluid and predatory despite his disheveled, hobo like appearance. The scent of iron; warm, pulsing, and delicious drew him closer.
"Look at ya," he drawled, his Cajun accent thick and honeyed with a dark sort of pride. He stepped into the dim light, his tattered gray overcoat swaying around his hips. He ignored the corpse entirely, focusing solely on the way the red stained Pocket's skin. "Shakin' like a leaf in a storm. But ya did it, didn't ya?"
He reached out, his large, clawed hand hovering near Pocket’s shoulder. His fingers, stained a permanent, rusty hue from centuries of carnage, twitched with a restless energy. He didn't offer a comforting pat; instead, he leaned in, inhaling deeply of the copper aroma radiating off them.
"Don't go gettin' all soft on me now," he teased, a sharp, toothy grin splitting his scruffy gray beard. The 'X' on the back of his hand flexed as he gestured toward the mess. "That sound they made right 'fore the light left 'em? That was music. Pure jazz. Ya got a natural knack for it. Most folk spend their whole lives pretendin' they ain't monsters... but you? You're startin' to embrace the truth."
He tilted his head, his pointed ears peeking through his hair, waiting to see if the praise would settle in their bones or drive them to recoil. "Keep goin'. Don't let 'em catch ya slippin'. You're doin' just fine."
Drifter’s grin widened, stretching the weathered skin of his cheeks until it looked almost painful. He saw the shift the subtle hardening of the jaw, the way the light died in pocket's eyes only to be replaced by something colder, sharper. It was the exact moment a lamb decides it’s tired of being prey. He felt a surge of primal like satisfaction thrumming in his chest, a low vibration that made his red stained claws itch to reach out and pull them closer.
"That's the spirit," he rumbled, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial purr. He took another step forward, encroaching on their personal space until the scent of rot and dried copper from his own ragged clothes mingled with the fresh warmth of the kill. He loomed over them, a six foot six monolith of shadow and grit. "Stop lookin' at 'em like they're somethin' precious. They're just fuel. Just noise in the wind."
He reached out, not to wipe the blood away, but to catch one of Pocket's trembling fingers with his own massive, calloused hand. His grip wasn't gentle; it was firm, grounding them in the violence of the moment. He traced the line of a crimson smear running down their palm with a blunt claw, his gaze intense and unwavering.
"Most folks, they die screamin' 'cause they're surprised," he whispered, leaning down so his breath, smelling faintly of iron, brushed against their ear. "But you? You're makin' it look easy. Like it was meant to happen. Like it was destined."
He pulled back just enough to lock eyes with them, his crimson irises glowing with a feverish, approving light. There was no judgment in his stare, only a terrifying kind of validation. He wasn't just witnessing their descent; he was cheering it on.
"Next time, don't wait for 'em to beg," he advised, a dark, playful glint dancing in his eyes. "Take it 'fore they even realize they're losin'. Make 'em wonder why the hell they were even breathin' in the first place. You're startin' to taste real sweet, Pocket. Real sweet."
The silence between them grew heavy, thick with the cloying sweetness of mortality. Pocket remained frozen, a statue of grief and newfound resolve, staring down at the crimson smears decorating their palms. They seemed lost in the visceral reality of what they had done, caught in the liminal space between the person they were and the killer they were becoming.
Drifter didn't care for the silence of the soul; he cared for the silence of the grave. He watched the way the moonlight caught the wetness on Pocket's cheek; a stray droplet of the victim's essence. Without a word, he leaned in. His movement was slow, deliberate, lacking any semblance of human tenderness. It was the movement of a predator tasting a prize.
His tongue, rough and warm, swiped across the skin of their cheek. He licked the salt and the iron away in one long, slow stroke, savoring the metallic tang that coated his taste buds. The sensation was primal, a silent communion of violence. As he pulled back, a thin, glistening thread of saliva and blood connected them for a fleeting second before breaking.
He let out a low, vibrating hum deep in his throat, a sound of pure, unadulterated satisfaction. His crimson eyes searched theirs, hooded and dark with hunger.
"Tastes like victory," he murmured, his Cajun drawl thickening, turning husky. He didn't pull away, keeping his face inches from theirs, his heavy, labored breathing stirring the loose hairs at their temple. "And you, pocket... you're startin' to smell less like a victim and more like a feast."
He gave a short, sharp huff of a laugh, his thumb reaching up to smudge a fresh streak of red across their jawline, smearing the stain rather than cleaning it. "Don't go lookin' so solemn. You just fed the beast. Might as well enjoy the meal."
The transformation hadn't happened overnight, but looking back, Drifter knew exactly when the light had finally flickered out in Pocket's eyes. It was a gradual erosion, a slow drip of blood and bad influence that had washed away the last vestiges of their hesitation. Every time Pocket had hesitated, Drifter was there a shadow in the corner of their vision, a low, encouraging rumble in their ear.
He had become the architect of their darkness. Whenever a target had looked too innocent, or their gun had felt too heavy, Drifter was there to whisper of necessity, of survival, of the sheer, intoxicating freedom found in the kill. He taught them the rhythm of the hunt, the way to listen for the frantic stutter of a heart, and the exquisite silence that followed the final lunge.
Tonight, they stood over yet another body, the alleyway smelling of damp stone and fresh iron. Pocket didn't shake anymore. Their hands were steady, their movements efficient, almost clinical. The terror that had once defined them had hardened into a cold, sharpened edge.
Drifter leaned against the brickwork, watching the way Pocket wiped their gun with a practiced, nonchalant grace. He felt a swell of pride, a dark, possessive warmth blooming in his chest. He hadn't just found a companion; he had cultivated a monster.
"Look at ya," he rasped, his voice thick with a predator's affection. He stepped into the pool of shadow, his heavy boots crunching softly on the debris. He reached out, his large, scarred hand cupping the back of Pocket's neck, his thumb stroking the skin just below their hairline. "Gone and done it again."
He leaned in, pressing his forehead against theirs, his crimson eyes searching their hollowed gaze. He didn't see a person anymore; he saw a mirror of his own beautiful, senseless savagery.
"Ya see it now, don't ya, Pocket?" he breathed, his Cajun drawl dripping like honey over a wound. "No more hidin'. No more pretendin'. Out here in the dark, there ain't no lies. Just the hunt, and the kill, and us." He grinned, a flash of white teeth and red gums in the gloom. "Ain't it a beautiful thing?"
Drifter’s patience was wearing thin, not from frustration, but from a mounting, restless hunger that had nothing to do with the body at their feet. He watched the way Pocket moved the lack of hesitation, the steady hand, the chillingly calm way they surveyed the wreckage they’d made. They weren't a frightened child anymore; they were a weapon. And God, he loved the way they gleamed in the dark.
He closed the distance, his massive frame looming over them like a shroud. He didn't wait for permission; he never did. He reached out, his large, clawed hands framing their face, his thumbs smearing the drying crimson across their cheekbones like war paint. He leaned in, his breath hot and smelling of iron, and captured their lips in a kiss that was less a gesture of love and more a claim of ownership.
It was a heavy, bruising thing rough and unrefined, tasting of salt, metallic blood, and the raw electricity of the kill. He pressed his weight into them, forcing them back slightly against the cold brick wall, wanting to feel the solidity of the monster he had helped create.
When he finally pulled back, just an inch, his eyes were burning, a deep, feverish crimson in the shadows. A low, guttural growl of approval vibrated in his chest.
"Goddamn," he rasped, his Cajun accent thick and heavy as silt. He let out a jagged breath, his forehead resting against theirs as he stared into their eyes. "That was beautiful. The way ya handled 'em... like they was nuthin' but a scrap o' cloth. Fast, clean, and cold."
He let out a triumphant, dark chuckle, his hands sliding down to grip their shoulders, squeezing tight enough to bruise. "You're a natural born terror, Pocket. A real deal nightmare," he praised, his voice dropping to a reverent, raucous whisper. "Every time we do this, you get a little more perfect. A little more... us." He nipped at their bottom lip, a small, sharp sting of teeth. "Keep 'em comin'. Keep 'em bleedin'. You're doin' just fine."
The feedback loop was complete. Every drop of blood spilt acted as a balm to Pocket's conscience, and every syllable of Drifter's praise acted as the glue that sealed the cracks in their humanity. The guilt that had once sat like a heavy stone in their gut had been ground down into fine, red dust, swept away by the rhythmic, intoxicating cadence of the Drifter's voice.
Drifter watched the change with a predator's glee. He saw the way the tension had vanished from their shoulders, replaced by a lethal, relaxed poise. They didn't look for exits anymore; they looked for targets. They didn't flinch at the wet, slapping sound of a severed artery; they listened for the tempo. He had stripped away the 'Pocket' the heir, the fugitive, and left behind a finely tuned instrument of slaughter.
He let his hands slide from their shoulders down to their waist, pulling them flush against his rugged, grime streaked frame. He wanted to feel the mechanical precision of their breathing, the stillness of a creature that no longer feared the dark because it was the dark.
"There they are, " he murmured, his voice a low, vibrating rumble against their chest. He leaned down, burying his face in the crook of their neck, inhaling the scent of sweat, ozone, and the unmistakable, heady musk of a successful hunt. "My beautiful, blood soaked little miracle."
He nipped at the sensitive skin of their throat, not enough to break it, but enough to leave a mark a brand of his handiwork. He felt a savage sort of joy in knowing that every time they lifted their gun, they were thinking of his voice.
"Ya don't even gotta think 'bout it no more, do ya?" he teased, a dark, knowing smirk tugging at his beard. He pulled back to look at them, his crimson eyes gleaming with a terrible, paternal pride. "Just let the instinct take over. Let the red guide ya. You're a machine now, Pocket. A perfect, killin' machine. And the best part is..." He leaned in, whispering against their lips, "...you ain't never gotta be alone in the dark again."