Crack Of Dawn (Dream x GeorgeNotFound)

Hunt

Clay roamed the streets and alleyways scattered throughout the city like veins, thrumming with life. The hours after midnight, when the clubs were bustling with activity were the best targets for when he was on the prowl.

This particular part of town wasn't too full of clean cut people who would work a 9 to 5. In fact, it was littered with addicts, searching for their next hit, a little boost to keep them going and pull them out of the hole they'd dug themselves into, only burrowing deeper into the ground.

He was no different. The telltale signs of powder abuse plagued him too, although not from the drug itself as much as from the thirst of the next kill.

The Phantom. Looming over him as he stepped into the side alley - an infamous club, known for the type of regulars that are usually up to no good. It was the type of place where if you weren't actively being pursued by the cops or on a watchlist somewhere, you looked out of place.

Or at least that's what it used to be a decade ago. Now it was filled to the brim with petty thieves and addicts.

None of the people strewn about the dim alley were up to his standards. The catch wouldn't be as rewarding without a thrilling hunt, as he'd experienced firsthand. He needed a motive, a push to make the swipe and haul his prize back to the basement.

The urge to end a life with his own hands was persistent, and had been a part of his nature for as long as he could remember, almost like a primal instinct. He'd gotten away with indulging in his habits, too. It wasn't that hard to, after training and learning all throughout his youth for the lifestyle he was leading.

A woman, hunched over on all fours, heaving after having too much to drink. He could pull her up, sling her over his shoulder and scurry back, and none would be the wiser in their current miserable states.

However, there was no thrill. No motive. Nothing that would tie her together with the rest of his collection. There was nothing thrilling about a drugged up college student desperately trying to cling onto consciousness.

Or maybe the young couple, cradling each other in their arms while being too shit faced from different substances to do anything. The familiar signs of powder abuse littered all across their skin - revolting rashes and burns all over their faces, red spots covering their necks and bodies - the usual.

But then again, he'd already added a couple to his collection, and originality was what he strived for. Especially with a guest witnessing the killings. Sub par craftsmanship wouldn't do.

Clay had come to spot the common characteristics all the addicts shared, even if they weren't conscious to give it away with the way they slurred their speech and stumbled over every other word. He'd had practice, way more than he'd ever voluntarily signed up for.

When he was fresh into the killing game, he'd taken a man to his laboratory to study. The first victim he'd ever kept for longer than a few hours, with quite an unusual appearance.

The jitters and the paranoid eyes, darting around every corner of the room as if to check for potential threats. He'd be fine while under the influence, but once the effects wore off...

All hell would break loose. The results varied depending on the severity of the addiction - it ranged from something as mild as shivers all the way to screaming and thrashing and demanding their next hit.

His gaze darted to a middle aged man eyeing him with a suspicious glance. He seemed more or less sober - at least, enough to spot that Clay was out of place. After all, he hadn't put all that much effort into disguising himself to try to blend in. He'd figured he wouldn't have needed to, considering the crowd he would've been dealing with.