Dead heart does not thrum within his chest. The raven haired pale boy sits in the confines of his room, waiting for the sun to set and he could leave this God forsaken place. If Cobain thought of his past life no doubt the pale boy would miss the touch of sunlight on his face, but the heartless bastard merely casts those red wine eyes upwards as he tries to not let his hatred entirely consume him. He would need to think straight if he was going to get himself some food outside of Syn this evening. The obsidian haired boy finally decides to leave the confines of his room, though this does not cause any sort of happiness to enter his heart, only violent contempt as he stares at all the club goers, his default setting. They cheer and roar in delight at the music, the entertainment, the drinks and he tries to imagine it as cries of agony. Pain. The same pain Cobain has felt, the same pain he inflicted on his victims as they cried out for some sort of remorse towards his mistress and her headhunter. But Cobain never cared, all he wanted was the metallic taste of blood on his tongue as he ripped into them. Those red eyes desired nothing but to see the light leave his victim's eyes, sending them straight to hell where Cobain would no doubt one day join them.

He has wondered in his immortality, perhaps, if a vampire other than his mistress had rescued him that day and created him into the little demon boy he was now, how his life may have turned out. If he had a different maker who didn't use such a bond to their advantage. Regardless, Cobain knows if he had not been changed he no doubt would have died at the hand of his father, there had been no escaping death on that particular evening. But what would have happened has Risque not created her minion, well, the truth is entirely uncertain. Maybe he would be happier.

But then again, maybe not.

The hell boy picks up a soccer ball off the ground, no about left here by a previous resident, for Cobain surely did not lug a ball around with him every where. As he lays on his bed he begins tossing the ball up and down, catching it with each fall, only to press it forward again with those long fingers of his. He was so tired of living as a prisoner of the sun, stuck within this close of a proximity to his mistress was some sort of new form of torture. Why she insisted on Cobain remaining in Sacrosanct was beyond him when he could (not that he had a choice) be of use to her else where. As much as he hated his nomadic lifestyle and running errands for his misters, he despised this sense of stillness even more. Crimson eyes close for a moment, or what he believes to be but a moment. But then, as he reopens those hungry eyes, he sees the time and realizes so much of it has passed. The sun most likely having set by now. He rises from the bed and dares to peel back the heavy, sun blocking curtain, but red eyes meet only darkness and moonlight. Perfect.

He slips from his room, he can already tell that Syn is filling up and if he doesn't leave soon no doubt he will have endure another night in the club or Risque would send him on another ridiculous errand that Cobain would have no choice but to take part in. So in a rare moment of rebellion he practically vanishes through the front door, those red eyes an indication of what he would be seeking this evening, the only thing on his mind other than rage and hatred: blood.

He is bored, he wants to do something, to eat, destroy, kill. He clings to his shadows, where he feels most comfortable, an unseen villain in the darkness of Sancro. He just knows he has to leave Syn, despite the accumulation of his own kind there. Cobain has never never been impressed by the gathering of misfits that Risque calls her own. He hates them just as much as he hates himself. He is a contradicting child, acne even though he walks like a teenager, he walks with a deafening amount of presence, succumbed with pain, and boiling with hatred. He plans to put as much space between himself and Syn as possible. He feels that undeniable urge to feast, the strange and epic hatred consumes his mind. Cobain it would seem is at his most dangerous.

He is hatred in its purest form.

Even away from Syn he feels that familiar resentment towards Risque, his mistress, the creature that had brought him back from his eternal hell, only to be thrown back into the weak body his father had consistently abused, but with hidden powers this time around. But despite all the disdain he held for his mistress he did not dare disobey his maker. Besides, he may still be within the confines of that pathetic body, but this time he was indestructible, nothing could touch him.

Nothing would want to.
He was a monster now.

He arrives in the southern part of town. There were campers here this evening, no doubt family weekends being spent within the confines of the trees. He comes to rest beside a large pine tree, a hundred or so feet away from a couple trying to build a fire. It was just the two of them and they looked delicious. Red eyes watch with careful interest, waiting for the opportunity to strike.

Despite being bound to Risque and Syn, he was free to create his own havoc as long as it didn't interfere with her plans or plots, create his own destruction. And tonight that is what he felt like doing, tearing this world apart one by one. Ripping it to shreds.

Just because he could.