He loved black coffee.

The aroma. The texture. The warmth, heat that warmed his insides like a loving embrace. It was one of the few joys he found in life, a momentary respite from the instatiable thirst for blood and fire that plagued him constantly. It was bitter. It was dark. For many, it was an invaluable part of their life. In a strange and twisted way, the simple hot beverage before him was a lot like himself, a necessary evil.

With half-lidded eyes, he cast an empty stare down into the porcelain mug on the table, his own reflection greeting him back from atop the wavering black brew's surface. All around him, people stared as they walked past, the loner standing out like a sore thumb as he sat in a booth at the furthest corner of the small diner. He appeared indifferent to the various looks he recieved, knowing full well /why/ they were staring.

It was the scars.

Cerulean voids shifted towards the wrinkled purple flesh of his arm, burned sections of skin grafted onto healthy sections with crude stitching. A faint smile graced his lips, recalling the fateful day that had started it all - the day his dark gift had finally manifested. A cursed child; that was what they called him, an omen engulfed in pitch black flames. It wasn't long after his Quirk had awoken that he had been exiled from his own home, forced into a lifetime of crime and loathing.

And so it goes.

The body count was in the sixties now, sinners cleansed by the serial arsonist's cleansing flame. Bodies were seldom found, reduced to cinders in the breeze once the dark deed was complete. He was good, /too/ good. It was almost disappointing, how he never got much recognition for his work. While heroes and villains clashed in the public eye, he worked from the shadows - an invisible force that slowly scorched the world around its rugged edges. /Invisible./ The arsonist tilted his head upward, listless eyes falling over the unwelcomed companion whom sat across the table from him.

"So how long do you plan on following me around for?"

He spoke with a whispering tone, icy voids staring through the feminine apparition before him. To any bystanders, it would seem as if he was talking to himself, the raven-haired girl invisible to prying eyes. She was strange, a lingering soul that refused to depart. Her face. Her voice. Her presence. It all haunted him constantly, testing the limits of his sanity. At times, the serial arsonist wondered if she was even real, or simply the figment of a guilty conscience - she was different, after all. She wasn't a sinner. She was innocent and full of promise, undeserving of the cruel demise she had met by his hand. /An accident./ That's what he told himself, but deep down he couldn't shake those feelings of deprived enjoyment, blissfully smiling as he watched her burn.

"You're one creepy fucker, always watching me like that." He added with a huff, lifting the mug of coffee to his lips for a light sip.