Midnight Hour by ButtButtDoodle

Chapter One

Now there was an interesting woman, Sesshoumaru thought with amusement.

The midnight train rattled noisily, packed despite the late hour of the day, a cacophony of sounds that were an ode to the restless nature of the city. Among the sea of black business suits and pressed office dresses that overwhelmed the small compartment, Sesshoumaru stood out like a radiant living torch.

His long, silky hair had been meticulously braided into a perfect, white plait that ended just above his leather belt. An equally white suit tailored his long and fit form to the heavens, oozing the distinguished scent of 'rich' without seeming pretentious; a delicate act that only one as dignified as Sesshoumaru could pull off with acrobatic grace. The monochromatic color palette of whites was broken only by the pulsating red that edged the ends of his sleeves almost up to his elbows. Upon closer inspection of the red fabric, one could detail a hexagon pattern, boxing inside most delicately a blossom – some family crest of sorts, perhaps. It was a floral and feminine design to be sure and would have been particularly softening of the sharp figure his character cut...had it not given the unnerving illusion that the sleeves of his suit were dipped in freshly-spilled blood.

Despite his absurd appearance among the mundanity of the foot traffic, nobody in the train paid him any mind. Not for lack of interest, mind you. But Sesshoumaru was well aware that, to the common person, he emanated an aura that many would poorly describe as "dangerous", an adjective that fell comically short. It was because of this very aura, which he so carefully dispersed through sheer will alone, that those around him left the beautiful man to his own devices, ignored to wallow in his grandeur.

The lack of attention suited Sesshoumaru just fine. It meant more freedom of his person to move as he pleased and less resistance for the things that he desired.

If Sesshoumaru had been the type to grin he would have; yet as it was against his very nature to express any outward emotion, he settled on surveying his newest prey almost casually over half-lidded lashes. The tall man sat a bit straighter in the uncomfortable train bench, drinking in her figure, the small world of the train and its present inhabitants dissipating into nothingness as his field of vision narrowed down to the lone creature that held his attention captive.

She was the perfect picture of modesty: black sensible shoes with buckles and a modest heel, paired with a grey mousy skirt that skimmed the delicate bones of her ankles, plus matching grey vest and coat. Her straight, black hair was coiffed in a conservative no-nonsense up-do, that better befit a retired secretary than her much younger features. All in all, her outfit lacked a single trace of sex appeal and, ordinarily, she would've passed by without his notice; another faceless nobody in his tumbling existence to be processed through his memory and just as quickly forgotten...had it not been for her hands. Or, more specifically, what was covering said hands.

That was because, despite the almost clerical wardrobe she had cocooned herself in, inside this deceptively-modest creature lived a daring woman who wore leather gloves the color of crimson red, pulsing and loud against the grey canvas of her clothes. Both color and texture were hypersexual - almost vulgar- on her virginal fingers, and drew his interest hungrily.

Sesshoumaru's curious yellow eyes momentarily met her own blue gaze, shy and skittish, that red-gloved hand tightening upon the train pole uncertainly, and he smiled to himself.

He had found his newest target.

The train hissed to a stop and she skittered out like a frightened mouse. Without looking away from his prey, Sesshoumaru got up from his seat and followed her out.

His tongue flicked over elongated fangs in anticipation. Idly, he wondered if her blood would be as red as her gloves.