He Was Evil
Marcel was so used to people tripping over his beauty that it didn’t faze him when the waiter or whoever she was, almost drooled while taking his orders.
He needed two black coffees as darkly roasted as they came. He needed the bitterness, the way it stung reminded him of pain and the need to survive. And to survive means to desire nothing, to be free of emotions. Emotions were blinding and human – and he wasn’t trained to be human. His line of work was for survival, to kill or be killed.
Marcel groaned, rubbing his temple, what’s taking them so long? Where’s the damn coffee? As much as he pretended not to be human, he was human and addicted to coffee as many humans out there are.
He tapped his finger against the rippled tabletop contemplating his next action. Should he
