All humans smell of suffering to some degree.
But he reeked of suffering.
If this bar was the seedy sort that reeked of stale alcohol and ancient cigarette smoke, I have no doubt the emotions, the deceptions he dripped all over would have overwhelmed all physical smells. The lies that clung to him after they twisted the minds of his victims. Or victim.
He was scum either way.

The amount of suffering he caused... I could live off it for a hundred years. But though the suffering he caused was overflowing, it was not mine to claim. I didn't cause it. And furthermore, from the subtle tones of the stench... he knew it was all unjustified, but there was no guilt.
Earlier, I'd punched someone's shoulder and then claimed to have mistaken them for a friend. Apologies don't negate the suffering I cause, and I'd fed on their annoyance and pain. Enough for a few tricks. So I approached him, my power reaching into his mind to twist his vision. He'd see his ideal.
I had no idea how I looked to him. Probably better that way.
The illusions took care of the 'flirting'. This I allowed myself to hear. With so many people around, the dissonance between what I said and what he responded to could make people curious. Invite interference before my ideal moment, with a lure that, from the sound of it, was presenting itself as an absurdly easy target.
"A drink?" he said, and then winked, "Nah. I'm about at my limit. I could treat you though!". He didn't look or act like he was at any sort of 'limit'.
My illusion accepted.
And conversation flowed at the bar. Nearby the bartender served her customers efficiently.
"You know, I've dated quite a few crazy bitches and bastards," he clinked a glass of water against mine, writing something down "but I have a good feeling about you." He leaned in close. Very close. Close enough that if he was 'at his limit' his breath should stink of alcohol. "If you'd like to meet up elsewhere that is." And he offered, between his fingers, a sheet of paper with his phone number.
In reality, I smiled, leaned back, and took the number.
In his reality, that smile stretched and stretched until barely before the reaches where it would become ridiculous. Said "I like people like you. You deserve what you get!"
And I leaned forwards and bit off the fingers that held his number.
In the moments before I allowed the pain to hit I focused hard on making 'his' bones crunch loud, the 'blood' dripping down 'his' palm and 'my' lips almost as thickly as his lies did. Even when his pain hit, he was silent a moment. His pain, his confusion, both feeding me. Tasting of deception.
"The FUCK!" he yelled, leaping back off the stool, holding his 'injured' hand aloft. "You-You...!"
I faked silent confusion at his outburst.
The rest of the patrons stared at him, all fidgiting and reacting in their own ways.
Meanwhile the bartender came over, looking at him with one eyebrow raised. "Are you... alright...?
And the bystander effect took all attention off him.
He dove over the bar, knocking over peanuts, holding his perfectly fine hand aloft. "SHE BIT MY FINGERS OFF! CALL AN AMBULANCE!" Ah. Anxiety. Tastes nice.
The bartender looked like this wasn't the weirdest shit she'd seen, and she'd quite like to have just one normal night thank you very much. "Look. Your hand is fine. But I suppose you're right about needing the hospital. Just make sure you tell them what you took." With that, she picked up a phone and dialed.
"what" His eyes darted between the bartender and his hand. "Is this a joke? I'm not on anything! She really bit off my fingers!" He still, like an idiot, waved his perfectly fine hand in front of the bartender. Geeze. Thinking he was bleeding and not the sense to put pressure on the wound.
All he got from the bartender was an occasional "uh huh" while she, entirely flatly, asked for an ambulance and described the situation. She gave him a pointed look and added, "No. He doesn't seem violent. If he stays calm there'd be no need for the police."
Fucking-!" he slammed his hands on the bar, mindless of his perceived injury, and ran.
"And he's run off," the bartender said before giving a description. Then she put down the phone. And turned to me. "Sorry about that. Are you alright?" she asked with bit more actual concern. A slight frown."
"Yeah." I thought that would be all, but...
furrowed, focusing inwards, before she looked about. "I don't know exactly what you did to him there and I don't want details. But even though he's a creep and... well..." she looked to the side briefly, "... you ...demons... need to do things like that... you're on thin ice for that act of magical vigilantism. Okay?"
Oh. For whatever reason... she could see.
Oh well.
I nodded and left.

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Credit to a possum for checking if the guy has creepy vibes

Best to run home now.