I Don't Know Yet.

Ring, ring. Ring, ring. A land-line phone in a lowly apartment rang repetitively, almost eagerly. It was a calm, collected night; not a stir nor disturbance of the peace. A girl woke, screaming from the sheer physical agony. The scream cut through the quiescent apartments; that very physical suffering the girl felt, was merely just the beginning. It stirred a panic through the apartments as everyone rushed into to apartment six hundred sixty-six.
A couple of hours earlier in a subaltern bar known as the Tavern, men of every caliber filled the bar, jovially screaming and yelling. In the thick of all the men waited a dark-haired young waitress; her features were somewhat permissible. Her looks were enough to capture the eye of many drunks that passed through, or else she wouldn’t have gotten the job. The waitress patiently withstood the physical and emotional abuse that the men gave her; it was only the fact she couldn’t afford to quit the godforsaken job or she would have. The Tavern itself wasn’t necessarily that bad, except the customers who made it aggravatingly unbearable, there were a few choice customers that caught her eye. These customers differed from all the others in various ways that would make one question, why they came to this bar? For weeks she’d watch as they came and sat in the same spot, only to get a wry glare from four of the five group members; instead of a glare from the fifth, she received a tempting smirk. It never dawned upon her to ask the man why he gave her such looks, or it was just that she didn’t care. She’d been given looks like that many times, so she was somewhat immune to it.
“Excuse me miss,” a tall man with a thick British accent said,” I’d like–“
"Schuyler,” the waitress’s soft Russian accent interrupted,” and give me a moment, sir. You aren’t the only person I have to serve.“
"But miss–”
“Wade,” Schuyler called to the bartender,” I need a cognac!“ Her eyes shifted to the bar as she made a swift movement there. She turned her head, looking to find the man who needed her services. "I guess he left,” she thought to herself as she turned back around to get the drink. “No,” he spoke, startling Schuyler,” I’m still here. I just followed you up here.” Schuyler gave him a skeptical stare; her hazel eyes looked as if they could carve one’s soul. Watching the look the man offered his hand, smirking slightly. “I’m Leviathan,” he insisted,” and if I recall, your name is Schuyler?” Keeping her skeptical stare, she shook his hand– shivers shot up her spine the moment their hands met. It was warm, almost hot. “Yes sir, it is.” She replied subtly.
Slowly, Schuyler examined him thoroughly;every feature that could be seen by the naked eye didn’t go unnoticed. First, his jawline structure was simply divine. It was almost as if sculpted by gods. It was chiseled to perfection. His eyes were somewhat of a crimson color, almost as if blood ran through his iris. From what she could see, he looked to be someone who worked out. His physique didn’t look too big, however, it didn’t look to small. He looked to be perfect. Undoubtedly, his perfection most likely did not excel in matters of where it counted.