He looked at the blood seeping from the victim’s wound. He couldn’t feel an ounce of regret.
The wind blew in his face, like fingers threading through his dark hair. His long coat unfurled like a cape behind him as he sauntered over to the small man. Crouching on the rough concrete he looked like a wounded animal. A sharp laugh escaped his throat as he crouched down, deep mahogany robes pooling around him. In the dim light of the city billboards, the blood, now pooling on the terrace floor, resembled spilled ink. He titled his head to the side, his mouth quirking up at the corners, a rabid twinkle in his eyes. “Please,” croaked out the dying man. “You’re… You’re Jackson Hill, you save people. Please.”
He arched his eyebrows in amusement as he stood up. Taking one last look at the pitiful sight before him, he turned around. He walked away, thrumming his fingers together, with the air of a train following him around.
He scoffed at how often people mistook him for his twin. “Jack, you’re making it so hard for me to make an impression,” he said to no one in particular. “No worries little brother, people will know Dawson Hill soon enough. People will know the Midnight Poison.” An evil smirk graced his handsome features.