Light attracts shadows like moths  to a  flame. The Net Wielder knows this all too well. Cloaked and lurking stands she, waiting, watching. Not an inch of her flesh is visible beneath the deep folds of her cloak. The flourescent streetlamps do little to reveal the color of her garb or even the shape of her body inside it. She is only waiting for her work to begin. Directly before her is a restaurant, all neon signage and plastic seating. Within, six people wait to receive their food. An overweight woman with two bleary eyed children. A boy and a girl, the latter looking as though she wished she were elsewhere. And an old man bristled of face and shabbily dressed. Six trays of food. Stale  buns and suspect meat. More suspect than the people know. Napkins are rustled paper crinkles at it is torn open. Six jaws open. Six jaws clamp simultaneously. Outside, the Net Wielder’s stance is poised to move. Her hour has begun. Within, six burgers flop down onto trays, each with the same bite-sized hole. There is no longer any light, neon, or otherwise, exuding from the restaurant. The Net Wielder springs. Her cloak ripples, one with the night as she withdraws from its folds, a shaft, impossibly long, silver infused with moonlight, and at the end hangs the Net. Fine as spider’s silk, so delicate and yet not fragile. Anything but fragile. There, she is ready now. The darkness of the restaurant is no longer whole. It is repulsed, sent to lurk in the corners by the light of things that were not there before. This is what she came for. Six orbs float dazzalingly in the air where before had been six bodies, hefty and burdensome. Six lumps of carbon, compounded and compounded. Now there are only lights. Each orb is slightly different, the woman’s tinged a deep blue. The children’s are smaller, a much softer, gentler blue. The girl’s is green, rich and sharp. The boy’s glows vibrantly with the hues of the setting sun, pinks and oranges mixing, melting. And the old man’s. His orb is far more faded than the others, casting only a small pool of yellow light, the color  of a lady’s white gloves left in the attic for too many years. The Net Wielder stands, her gaze caressing each orb. Seeing. Understanding. Slowly she raises the Net and scoops each orb into it  gently. It is done. The Net Wielder turns, and one last time, her cloak ripples in the darkness, one with the night, and then there is no longer any light exuding from the restaurant. Only the stars splashed across the sky, millions and millions of orbs of light.