In between heartbeats, the coin disappears from his weaving fingers, and Finch pauses his footsteps to assess the culprit who darts out in front of him. The figure moves with an easy grace, feet light and silent, and had it not been his coin that disappeared from his hands, he would not have known they were anything but a shadow. The black cloak hangs heavily off them, dually protecting them from the rain and protecting their identity, but even still, Finch can't quite shake the feeling that he's met this lithe figure before. As they move away from him, Finch follows persistently, less offended about the loss of his coin (though he certainly wants it back), but more intrigued by the mystery of who dared to take it from him.
As he studies, he sees the faintest lumps in the figure's hood. They could easily just be a misshapen bit of the hood, it pressed to its limits in the incessant rain, or... They could be the impression of two horns hidden under the black fabric, their visibility only clear to the familiar or observant. The thief recalls a similar hood hiding similar lumps, remembers an unimpressed flat line of a mouth, the slight glint of fangs.
"Excuse me," He calls, acting on his hunch and also wanting his coin back, "I think you have something of mine. I'd like it back."
As he studies, he sees the faintest lumps in the figure's hood. They could easily just be a misshapen bit of the hood, it pressed to its limits in the incessant rain, or... They could be the impression of two horns hidden under the black fabric, their visibility only clear to the familiar or observant. The thief recalls a similar hood hiding similar lumps, remembers an unimpressed flat line of a mouth, the slight glint of fangs.
"Excuse me," He calls, acting on his hunch and also wanting his coin back, "I think you have something of mine. I'd like it back."
