max matacia instinct

9:54 PM. The woman glanced at the clock again, hoping to find some respite in the number displayed. She appeared anxious as she frantically cleaned, and she shuffled around the small diner quickly, causing her long blonde hair to bounce on her head. Everyone had left the restaurant. It was just him. He’d been in the restaurant since nine and hasn’t given the woman any rational reason to feel frightened or on edge around him. The man has ordered only two things, black coffee, and a single piece of buttered toast. He sat there writing in a black notebook, with a black pen, in black ink. He seemed to be completely in his own realm, not noticing anything else going on around him. The only times he looked up was to order more coffee, or to thank the woman. 9:58 PM. The woman anticipated the next minutes manically. She tried to convince herself he was harmless. He hadn’t given her any reason to fear him, she just did. There was something off about him, she just couldn’t attach it to any one thing. It was like looking at a computer-generated image of person, you can’t tell what’s wrong, you just know something is. It’s primal. 10:00 PM. She came out of the small kitchen into the seating area. He was looking up from his notebook, staring directly at her.