Tony oconnell

The Cult

It was late, these streets were lonely, only the distant sound of cabs and clubbers could be heard above the large machinery that plagued these desolate industrial zones in capital city. A man stepped under a dim flickering light cast from overhead, he had a face as white as snow and thin lips that set in a natural scowl. He pulled a carton of cigarettes from inside his overcoat and lit one, the smoke billowed around him like a harbour’s morning fog.