"I have to follow you," he said. "I have to see you." He looked down at her hands, brown eyes rolling dumbly from one thick glove to another. "They were bigger before," he mumbled. No confusion showed on his face; in truth, he wore no expression at all. He was a passive observer of his own assault, bereft of any pressing need to influence its outcome.
The sole conscious observer of their back alley tryst stood now in a shadowed corner, silently watching what passed between them. Her shift had been a quick one, largely shrouded in darkness, but it had not passed beneath the his notice. Glasya wanted to see more, and he knew how to get it. He pressed into the young man's mind, altering his orders. In an instant the man's hands shot out, curling close around the woman's throat. Slowly -- too slowly, of that Glasya was certain -- the man began to squeeze.