Walking Dead

And He was here, in this territory rarely traveled alone, at an hour when even the most common, most desperate street whores are considering heading for whatever apartment, motel, flop house, or squat they call home. A Hunter, not hunting, merely waiting; impatiently waiting at the very end of an obscure alley, huddled in the shadows between two particularly pungent dumpsters. Waiting, waiting, waiting for one who calls himself ‘Bleeker’, recommended by another habitant of these streets, ‘Hobby’, as able to procure what he wanted; what he needed. It seems Bleeker was seeking to expand his clientele; another unfortunate trait of the lower classes--shameless social climbing. ‘We shall see.’ He was used to getting, and paying for, the best, if Bleeker could provide the merchandise He required, then they could do business.

This was their rendezvous point, His and Bleeker’s; a location strategically chosen so He could see, yet not be seen, until He chose to be. Once upon a time, He would have been as one with the gloom, wearing the shadows as easily as donning a cloak, but this glamour had long since eluded him, requiring Him to rely upon a more commonplace trick; crouching down behind a dumpster in a dark alley in the dead of night. To even further ensure temporary invisibility—or, at the very least, obscured visibility—He had broken every light source save one; the lone bulb in a wire cage above the back door of The Nitty Gritty Burger Grill.

He was late, this Bleeker. He had no watch, and no clock in sight, but was sure it was well past the appointed hour. The passing time was counted by the growing knot of Hunger twisting within His bowels. Rather than suffer the indignity of doubling over, He leaned back against the dirty alley wall, unmindful of His fine wool coat, allowing His head to fall forward onto His breast. He looked up in time to see a young man of small stature at the mouth of the alley. He had not felt his mortal heat, or smelled the bittersweet pulse in his throat; more disturbing, He had not even heard the simple sound of footsteps approaching. The young man sauntered down the alley, steps sure, unhurried, hands in the pockets of his long coat, to stop precisely at the agreed upon meeting place.

This must be Bleeker.