The strangest of things was happening to him. It had started off small, barely noticeable, and crept inside like an insect, planting its ugly eggs in the corners of his scattered mind. Then it had grown. It had grown and grown, and now finally here it was, as apparent and malicious as a scar. Michael had become bored. Not with just this night, nor with just the one before it. He had become genuinely bored with each and every night of his twisted life, and the notion had been itching at him for quite some time now. It had gotten to the point where even his grisly desire to hunt and kill had dwindled almost to nothing. The boredom had taken him by the throat and had nearly drained him before he had even realized the attack for what it was. Now his spacious house was empty, save for himself, and Michael was alone in the dark.

So he walked.

The night was still quite young, the air still smelling faintly of dusk. Michael walked through St. Raine's Square which was, during the day, the heart of Demaitre's most profitable transactions. Now it was nearly empty. A few office lights still glowed in the windows above, and every now and again a business man or woman would rush out of a door, briefcase in hand, eye on his or her watch. Watching them scurry towards home sparked that familiar, faint desire to chase one of them down, to trap one of their fragile bodies against a wall in an alleyway and to slowly, very slowly, tear it apart. Piece by piece. But instead of chasing, he merely looked away, diverted his gaze, and walked on. He needed a fix--of what, he was not certain. But he needed one. He needed something to snap him out of this rut he had inadvertently stumbled into, and that was all. He would be Michael again, content to terrorize whoever was unfortunate enough to cross his path. His mind wandered to Aldonza, to the time he had dedicated to her and to the effect she had had on him. Perhaps she was the reason for this...this change. But no, there was nothing permanent about it. He was sick with a small contagion, and there was a cure waiting out there somewhere.

He turned his attention on a woman. He knew she would not distract him for long, that by chasing her he was only postponing the inevitable return to boredom, but why not? She was young and pretty, probably a secretary, probably the cause of some older wife's grief. He fell into step with her, a good distance behind her, his hands neatly tucked into his pockets. Her scent was almost bitterly sweet, too overwhelming and obviously bottled. But her legs were bare and alluring, and her dark hair caught the light just right. She was heading home, probably ready for bed, and when she closed her front door and locked it and thought herself safe for the evening, Michael would shatter that fine illusion.