Loki followed the dark figure from his position on top of a building. He liked spying on the mortals from this place, gathering information to blackmail, corrupt and manipulate. He already knew the bakery girl had the devil in her palm but they were beneath Loki's own machinations. No. Most here were pathetically weak, even the ones who called themselves heroes. He could smell mutant blood but had yet to locate his source. Loki had bigger plans and perhaps a golden opportunity with a silver arm had landed in his lap.
His fingers flexed around his sceptre. That morning, he had blinked and it had landed in his hand like a gift wrapped present for his chaotic side. It was more than a gift, it was a weapon to be used precisely. He couldn't wage a war without an army.
He could smell murder on this man. He could taste the corruption and hear the buzz of his mental state as a blank slate for him take over.