That fact will stand out to him later as cause for alarm — one reason of many, and obviously not the biggest problem with what happens by a mile, but it's significant. The recognition doesn't spark in his brain. The fact that he knows her face either doesn't register or, in this moment, doesn't matter. She could be anyone.
She could be anyone at all.
All his mind cares about, all he's fixated on, is the long list of nameless, faceless bandits that have been deemed open season. No restrictions, no brakes. Green light. Floodgates open. The desire, the drive, the need, the approval to murder. He has decided consciously and subconsciously to kill them all. Him and the Mark are, for once, in utter alignment.
He doesn't see her. He's expecting the next victim. She touches his arm, his focus shifts to her. She is the next one on the list.
That touch, the act of it in his mind, is an initiation. He registers no distinction between a soft hand and a grab. It's all a threat. It's all a provocation.
In a blink, in a mindless, thoughtless heartbeat, the bandit is abandoned and his fist is aimed for her instead. It's so fast, this sequence of events. Faster than a normal human should move. Less than a second after the blow lands, it's followed up with him slamming her down onto the ground hard enough to knock the wind out of her, and driving his fist into her cheek again.
Chasing the satisfaction of broken bones. Chasing blood. The hand not wrapped around the handle of the blade is instead wrapped around her throat hard enough to bruise. His pupils are blown wide, dilated, his expression utterly blank, devoid of recognition. He doesn't see her.
no subject
That fact will stand out to him later as cause for alarm — one reason of many, and obviously not the biggest problem with what happens by a mile, but it's significant. The recognition doesn't spark in his brain. The fact that he knows her face either doesn't register or, in this moment, doesn't matter. She could be anyone.
She could be anyone at all.
All his mind cares about, all he's fixated on, is the long list of nameless, faceless bandits that have been deemed open season. No restrictions, no brakes. Green light. Floodgates open. The desire, the drive, the need, the approval to murder. He has decided consciously and subconsciously to kill them all. Him and the Mark are, for once, in utter alignment.
He doesn't see her. He's expecting the next victim. She touches his arm, his focus shifts to her. She is the next one on the list.
That touch, the act of it in his mind, is an initiation. He registers no distinction between a soft hand and a grab. It's all a threat. It's all a provocation.
In a blink, in a mindless, thoughtless heartbeat, the bandit is abandoned and his fist is aimed for her instead. It's so fast, this sequence of events. Faster than a normal human should move. Less than a second after the blow lands, it's followed up with him slamming her down onto the ground hard enough to knock the wind out of her, and driving his fist into her cheek again.
Chasing the satisfaction of broken bones. Chasing blood. The hand not wrapped around the handle of the blade is instead wrapped around her throat hard enough to bruise. His pupils are blown wide, dilated, his expression utterly blank, devoid of recognition. He doesn't see her.