A Wolf in the City

2| Suits are Annoying.

RAVEN.

Suits.

They somehow annoy me. They seem to me like a sort of anti-hero suit. Not stretchy thus hiding the body rather than showing it off. It's like they were made as a sort of club-membership for the up-side down world of greed and selfishness being a praised virtue where you're supposed to enrich yourself at the expense of other people just to win ahead or over the 'competition.' Every single man in here is in one, mostly black and others grey or white.

"This party is the it, isn't it, Raven?" One of the girls finally directs to me and I smile while nodding my head even though I feel otherwise, having been ignored for so long that I could swear that I'm invisible.

I just don't seem to fit in here, I shouldn't even be here if not for the fact that I am trying to get my dream job and pretending to socialize in a political and high class party like this is the only way for me. I try so hard to ignore the fact that we are on a ship in the middle of a big ocean that can swallow me whole as I fix myself in whatever conversation that is going on. But it just doesn't work, nobody seems to care that I am unfamiliar. Nobody seems to care that I am unusual. Nobody seems to even notice me. I've had to take a glance down at myself a few times to make sure that I am still there; that I have not turned invisible.

Nope -still there. Yet somehow, I like it that way. I have once been told that I have the kind of face you forget even when looking directly at it which to me, is good. I don't want to be remembered. Attention have brought me only trouble in the past anyways.

Thinking of the past, my head start to throb. The pain feels like someone took a knife to my skull. I lean my head against my right hand. Squeezing my eyes shut, I will the pain to go away. The rest of the party becomes detached, all I can concentrate on is the pain rooted deep in my head. I can barely even hear the people chattering around me. All I could feel all I know is the pain of the moment and so I dawn the wine in my wine cup at a go as if I have been told that it cures headaches or nulls pain.

I start to walk away from the gathering, the fake laughter and hypocrisy, and my legs seem to move so easily and fast such that I am soon faraway from any of the stuck up people on the ship and closer to the railings of the ship on the other side. My arms open wide and I close my eyes, feeling the breeze and the sea even though I am well aware that I am too close to the edge than I should be but then I just love the feeling too much to care. I love how this moment seem to take away the bad memories that surfaced seconds ago.

I open my eyes and look sideways only for them to catch a view that makes the world truly cease to exist. It is as if I have been dumped at the edge of the ocean, where only this view and his masculine beauty remains, blinding me to anyone or anything ever again. The impact of it crashes into me like waves during a storm, ready to swallow the ship whole. The air hitches in my throat while electricity travels from the top of my head to the tip of my toes, sending unfamiliar longing into my cells. His dark hair, falling just on his shoulders, accentuates his tan skin and high cheekbones, bringing attention to the perfect symmetry of his face and making all the sculptors in the world jealous that such perfection already exists.

Except his nose.

It has two small bumps indicating it has been broken a few times, but it only adds to the alluring darkness hovering over him and whispering at me to touch it and get burned. Various scars on his neck mar his skin, visible under the dim light streaming from above, yet he does nothing to cover them up. He wears them as a badge of honor, daring anyone to question him about them.

His mouth suddenly shapes into a smile, a cold sinister one, the coldness filling his golden orbs warns me about the thousands of weapons this man possesses. Weapons that might be deadly and send me into the abyss if I’m not careful enough. Without warning, my legs is suddenly become unstable and I go slipping against the floor and over the railings of the ship. I scream, closing my eyes as I expect to hit the freezing water that is sure to kill me in a matter of seconds. But then, I don't hit the water far below as I am stopped by something. Someone.

I am suspended in air by his hands and when I look up, it is the same man from before. I realize that moisture has gathered in my eyes, and my hair is probably a tragic mess of the wind’s making, and the dark circles beneath my eyes can probably be seen from outer space. I’m about to tell him to pull me, because my position is literally over the water below and I’m scared that if I move too much myself, I’ll just fall. It all seem so slow like time has been slowed down as I remained dangling.

I decide to focus on the stranger's eyes instead of the fact that I can literally fall to my death any time from now. His eyes is darting back and fourth, shining in the sunlight but there is something else in them, something glistening, glistening like an old copper penny. I watch as the whites in his eyes turned a pure black, and as his iris glower teal. Symbols, lines and dots form in the iris, placed in a sort of manner. His lethal stare feels painful and piercing, as if his glare was tearing my heart apart with a blinding teal light.

It’s like I’m seated at the premiere of a film. A thriller. Or maybe a horror. People’s eyes usually brighten with emotions, any type. Even grief makes them shine with tears, unsaid words, and irrevocable regrets. His, however, are as dim as the night and just as dark. And the weirdest part is that they’re still indistinguishable from their surroundings. If I wasn’t staring straight at him, I’d think he was a creature of the wilderness.

A predator. A monster, maybe. His face is sharp, angular—the type that demands undivided attention, as if he were created for the purpose of luring people into a carefully-crafted trap. No, not people. Prey. There’s a masculine quality to his physique that can’t be hidden by his black trousers and a shirt whose sleeves are rolled up. In the middle of this freezing spring night, his arm muscles bulge from the material with no hint of goosebumps or discomfort, as if he were born with cold blood.

The hand he’s currently holding my wrist hostage with— and effectively stopping my fall to death— is taut, but there’s no sign of exertion whatsoever.

Effortless.

That’s the word to be used for him. His whole demeanor drips with utter ease. It’s too cool… too blank, so that he appears a bit bored, even. A bit… absent, despite being right here in the flesh. His full, symmetrical lips are set in a line as an unlit cigarette hangs from between them. Instead of looking at me, he stares at the quick fire that comes out of his lighter as soon as he flicks it, and for the first time since I noticed him, a spark of light simmers behind his irises. It’s fast, fleeting, and almost imperceptible. But I catch it.

His hand loosens from around my wrist and when my body slips further, a haunted shriek echoes in the air. Mine. I don’t even think about it as I grab hold of his wrist with my other hand.

“What... what on earth do you think you're doing?” I pant through my choked breaths, my heart stammering. A sense of terror rips through my rib cage, and I haven’t felt anything like it in weeks.

“Uh... what does it look like I’m doing?” He still speaks with utter ease, as if he’s discussing breakfast options with friends. “I’m finishing the job you started of course, but I'm trying to savor the scene so that when you fall to your death, I can commemorate the moment. Although I think you could have chosen a cooler way to die... that water would not be friendly at all, but then who cares how anyone dies as long as they're dead, right?" He shrugs.

My mouth hangs open as an influx of thoughts invade my mind. Did he just say he's trying to commemorate the moment of me falling to my death? I have too many questions, but the most important of all is, who let this lunatic out of the asylum?