Was he really there? Or was it all a game of her mind; a mind full of illusions, that had to doubt his very existence in the first place? What if it was all just a reaction of her overworked brain? That would be a great explanation as to why Jenny was seeing things. Or that was the excuse she gave herself, feeling awkward standing in a public space like that - looking at the older man as if she had just seen a ghost.

But the seconds went by and whatever this illusion was.. it didn’t go away, leaving the blonde looking – taking in that expression, the way he stood on the line, the way her name slipped his lips.

Looking unhappy would be one way to describe him right now. Barely acknowledging her, avoiding all eye contact were only a few messages sent her way and boy, Jennifer was receiving them all. It almost felt like whatever logic she had left sunk into the pic of her stomach - but that was irrelevant, right?

Pressing her lips into a fine line, she forced a half smile on her face. “Welcome back.”

The words were simple - and if she was being honest, she didn’t think twice saying them. Taking one last look at him, fingers pressed against the warm porcelain cup and finally she stepped aside and walked back to her corner, giving the older man what he so likely wanted these difficult two minutes of the awkward encounter.

Peace of mind.

Malcontent pattered through the crevices of his mind, slipping and sliding through the cracks of his gray matter as if to drench the entirety of his skull in the growing, bubbling anger that festered in his crippled form. His rib cage, although misconstructed, provided a sort of barrier from the emotions that rattled against the poorly formed encasement, the very things that threatened to tear apart his fleshy form, to reveal themselves, to cry out and exclaim, “You mustn’t fear the man I’ve become, just the man I’ve been!”

But the words felt strange as they rolled over in his head, a tingling engrossing his being as bright eyes trailed after the young woman, who returned to her seat as if on command, as if the simple mention of her name was enough to send her on her way.

And yet he should have known better, should have known that within her gentle form was an equally gentle soul that required care and comfort, and not the rough grasp of hands that rarely knew what it was like to hold such precious flowers between their fingers.

My, he was a beast, a beast of no nation and yet of many, and while they attempted to claim he had a greater connection to them than the next, the Hungarian grew weary, eyes dulling and blurred by what he claimed were not tears but... but some other sort of reaction he could not recall the name of.

Heavens, his form, while uneven and tattered, was able to stand upright in line, hands shoved into the pockets of his jeans as his teeth grit together.

It was put a blink later that the soles of boots clicked against the flooring of the cafe, driving him towards the very table where the woman sat, and he took it upon himself to slip into the seat across from her.

An ill-placed anger painted tired features, a misconstrued look of frustration that had been strangled from its original form to now appear much more sinister than intended.

Thick fingers laced themselves together on the table top; heavy shoulder shifted forward, as if to funnel his words towards the woman he had by now certainly startled.

Bright blue eyes watched her with an intensity that could have melted mountains.

“Did you get my letters?”

The words were slick yet tender, uncertain yet excited, a peculiar mixture of sensations that even he was unsure what to make of them.

It would be like pulling teeth, he could feel it in his bones, riding along the edges of his cuticles, and nibbling at the tips of his fingers, at the tender flesh that barely peeked out from beneath the end of his nails. He curled his fingers underneath, towards his palms as if in search of some false sense of security, hopefulness that the tingling in his being would subside.

Photos lined the walls like memories stapled to the front of his skull: at the forefront and unnecessarily aggressive in their pixelated joy. It seemed that no matter where he had moved in the room that the eyes followed him, and while those of the Mona Lisa did not make her viewers uncomfortable, the Englishman grew concerned at such an ability of these family photographs.

The room was, in short, atrociously decorated, at least that was the conclusion he came to after sitting in the corner’s rocking chair for a few hours, his rear going numb by the time he heard the home’s front door jiggle with the entry of the key.

Adjusting his position in the chair, he rested on palm on the leg of his suit pants. His other hand calmly rested a Beretta 92 FS on his right thigh, eyes on the bedroom door as he removed a silencer from his pocket, screwing it on as he listened to the approaching footsteps.

As the door’s handle turned slowly, the man’s bright eyes flickered to look at the soundly sleeping child. She was but two years old, unaware that she wouldn’t see another birthday or morning meal. How innocent. How... unfortunate.