Abel was just coming in himself; he'd spent the better part of the night canvassing clubs, looking for something to stymie the metaphorical hole in his gut. He'd imbibed -- enough to the point that he stank of alcohol, and sweat, and other things -- but it was never what the thing in him wanted. He parked in the Pax Letale parking lot, sitting back in his seat with his eyes closed as he remembered the taste of one particular man; he'd spent his night in a gay club, his skin still faintly covered with glitter and saliva, and a dark-skinned youth had caught his attention more than anyone else. They'd danced, and Abel had taken the young man into one of the back rooms provided for that sort of thing, and fucked him. Sex barely ever did anything for Abel; it was the bruises, the bites, the rending of flesh, the undoing of another life that left him with some small modicum of feeling.
So now he waited in his car for a moment, just remembering the feeling, knowing that, if by some off chance he ever saw the young man again, he'd go running in the other direction. Sometimes Abel wished he had some sense of control, but then that would eat into the fun of it. He opened his eyes, sucked in a deep hiss of breath, pulled the keys from the ignition, and made his way into the lobby of Pax, weaving through the dead cars like headstones. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a woman on a motorcycle, either readying herself to go in or on her way out. The way she was dressed seemed like her impending or ending ride was an afterthought, and Abel slowed his steps so that the two would meet just in front of the Pax doors.