There.
Right there.
I see him. Dull, worn gray hoodie with athletic sweats. His shaggy, copper hair is pushed back as the harsh storm blows into him. His eyes resemble rusty sapphires, but are hard to admire as his heavy eye lids shut firmly over them, becoming shields from the wind. Hands shoved into his “kangaroo pouch” in his hoodie, and neck tilted downwards. Everything about him screams he is the one.
He looks tired, unamused, exhausted, and utterly done with this moment. His hoodie suits him well. He is exactly as they described him. All of my life, my existence, all of my training has led up to this.
There he is, that’s him. I’m certain. He’s the one. He has to be.
The first boy I have to kill.
Porcelain Prose 