In his world it wasn’t the quiet and it certainly wasn’t the absence of people - the smiling misanthrope was an apt, if a little too affectionate description ascribed him on many translucent social gathering, it was so hard to put ones finger on exactly what was so malevolent about him - it was something else that was slipping. His veneer of social appropriateness was cracking and peeling and he just couldn’t summon the energy to care.

He stared at the barista behind his steaming, industrial machine. He didn’t simply stare at the man, he catalogued him. All his attention was focussed this instant on the flash of silver emerging above that indifferent eyebrow. He could feel it’s cold shock of alien metal, so at odds with the languor of the unconscious activity. Animated by the task he performed, the object of such a concentrated stare was not unaccustomed to such attention, but this time it was different.