Astrid "Raven" Bennett never did like seeing a man saunter towards her in a dark alley. 

Sure, she had gotten used to it, a long, long time ago, -- it was a huge part of the job description, and she recognized that. But it never made her feel good, -- right up until the fateful night that her profession and sense of timing crashed down on her in the most horrible of ways, the sound of heavy, hulking footsteps made her stomach drop as if it were suddenly filled with lead. 

Even now, when the worst has long since been done, she feels that dread, fear spreading through her veins like venom as the long shadow draws nearer. 

Someone is coming. Considering that she's the only one standing in the alleyway, they just might be coming for her. 

Nervous, Raven puffs on her cigarette, drawing in a large amount of smoke so violently quick that she knows it would have choked a living person to death. Knowing that she doesn't have to fear mortality, she tentatively allows her eyes to dart towards the approaching figure. 

Just as she thought, the person is most definitely a man. Quite possibly a big one, if the far-set outline of his shoulders says anything, though she can't make much sense of what his build might be like beneath the long leather jacket he's wearing.

Raven can tell he's got a mean streak, just by the way he moves, -- his footsteps come in long strides and land with heavy thumps against the concrete, quick and rhythmic. There's a sense of purpose in his walk, along with a practically grotesque lack of subtlety. 

He's a man on a mission, and he's broadcasting that fact to the world rather obnoxiously. 

He's the type who doesn't worry about getting caught. 

Level as her temperature may be, this observation sends a shiver down Raven's spine.

Immediately, she knows that he's not someone she wants to deal with. 

Figuring it's best to nip something in the bud before it can even begin to get out of hand, she daintily flicks the ashes from her cigarette before offering a few words to him. 

"I'm warning you, buddy. I'd get out of here if I were you." She says it nonchalantly, not letting on that if her heart could still beat, it would be sending itself into overdrive with anxiety. Given the fact that the worst thing that could happen to her already has, Raven has little trouble slipping into her tough-as-nails act. "Tonight isn't the night to be messing with me." 

The man chuckles, an arrogant snort effortlessly thrown in along with the low noise. 

The self-assurance within this act further ignites the fire currently burning through Raven's very being. 

Just as she had previously assumed, the douchebag obviously isn't afraid of anything. 

"So there is a designated night during which you can be messed with?" he inquires, continuing his overly-confident trek in her direction. "It just doesn't happen to be tonight, huh?"

Though he doubts he can see her through the darkness, Raven grins ruefully, crossing her arms over her chest. 

Jesus Christ, she thinks. If the guy doesn't turn out to be a real threat, this is gonna be fun. 

This thought in mind, she decides she'll push the boundaries a bit in order to assess his exact threat level. 

Her strategy? As usual: smart-assery. 

"Indeed," she begins, voice steady, smooth as silk. "There was a night on which you would have been free to bother me, but unfortunately, it isn't tonight. Or tomorrow. It wasn't yesterday, either. Or the night before that." 

Unable to hide just how pleased she is with herself, a quiet giggle escapes Raven's black-painted lips. "You see, my friend," she continues, "I'm afraid you're a bit late to jump on the harassment bandwagon. The last opportunity you had would have been two years ago; I'm afraid the next event is scheduled for 'never.'" 

Ever the actress, she allows the smirk to slip away from her face, expression dead serious in the moonlight. "Unfashionably late. Isn't that a shame?" 

The man only gives her a hum of acknowledgement, hardly seeming any closer to a violent episode. 

"Truly," he says. 

Silence settles between them as the man continues to approach Raven, his footsteps seeming to gradually grow slower and quieter. Finally, the pale light of the moon brings his features into view.

Raven can't say that he's what she expected. 

Many things about him are surprising, if not outright strange. 

Despite the way his clothes, hair, and stance scream 'delinquent,' Raven knows he wouldn't fit in with the bastards who got her alone in this alleyway two years ago. 

His deviance and theirs are clearly not two concepts cut from the same cloth; the clouding of his eyes screams 'pain,' not 'drugs.' The grimace on his luminous pale face speaks of restlessness, not brainwashing-induced boredom. The restlessness in his shaky movements conveys anger, not lust. 

Wrath, Raven finds herself thinking. The man's obviously filled with it. The one true question is what (or whom) he'll choose to take it out on. 

Another chill snakes up Raven's spine as she finds herself locking eyes with the man through the dark. Both of them remain silent as she takes him in: face intricately and ominously painted, eyes shadowed with black, lips a shocking crimson gash, long thin lines drawn down the sides of his cheeks and at the edges of his mouth like pits in the face of a viper. Upon closer inspection, the sleek darkness of his attire seems rather deliberate; contradicting the mess on his face, the getup seems to have been designed to let him blend in. He even seems to stand with purpose, utterly foreboding; to complete the image, a large black bird swoops in with a harsh 'caw,' landing gracefully on one of his shoulders. 

Raven's gaze remains glued to the animal momentarily, eyes wide as the bird tilts its head, seeming to eye her appraisingly, just as she does its owner. 

A crow, her mind registers as she continues to look on at the man in disbelief. 

Finally, she seems to snap out of her dumbfounded state, if only a bit. Throat already dry, she unintentionally takes a gulp of frigid autumn air, eyes darting from the corvid to the person, once again. 

Though she can't quite put her finger on it, there's a palpable feeling coursing through her: that being that, in some unknown way, she and this macabre-looking stranger are something alike. Perhaps in the most important way of all.

Hell, she thinks. I thought I was the last of my kind. 

As soon as this thought pops into her mind, the irritating smirk resurfaces on the man's deep red lips. Raven jumps as she feels his freezing skin brush hers in a way that, luckily, feels wholly incidental; she finds that, having been so shocked to truly see him, she had slid down against the wall, falling on her ass onto the concrete. It didn't hurt, of course. But it was still mortifying enough. 

Seemingly wanting to save her the embarrassment, the man jerks his hand away from where it had somehow landed previously on her forehead, reaching for one of Raven's hands. The feeling of familiarity deepens when she feels just how cold his hands are against her own.

They're practically one and the same.

Once she's on her feet and (somewhat) steadied, the man smiles at Raven. Simultaneously, the crow's eyes fall on her, seemingly expectant. 

"My name's Eric Draven," he begins in a low voice. "You may remember me."