SERIAL KILLER, murderer, psychopath.

These were the labels James Paul Mccartney was listed as.

Nobody really knew the real him, not even the policemen who tried (and failed) to catch him again and again despite their best efforts. Paul pretty much killed everyone he met. He didn't want anyone to know him and he certainly didn't want to leave evidence.

Until one day, Paul Mccartney accidentally managed to fuck up by leaving the woman he was supposed to kill barely alive on the floor.

She managed to survive everything , despite his best efforts in literally killing the living shit out of her. The police managed to trace the fingerprints to a shady cockroach-infested motel a few miles from the victim's home.

And Paul, not being used to messing up things like these, just had to deal with the chain of events as it is. Let it be, his mother used to say. Which roughly translated to Fuck it, it happened already and you can't do anything about it.

Snatching his things, Paul narrowly escaped through the backdoor, the police siren ringing in his ears.

"He's here! He's here! He's---" The words were cut off by Paul's knife plunging into his chest. The officer let out a shocked gurgle and he wretched the blade out only to stab him again, blood spurting all over his shirt.

Fuck. He thought, stepping back as panic flooded his head. Fuck fuck fuck--- they're goig to find me and i'm going to rot in jail for my whole life---

Unless...

With his instincts shot up to the roof, Paul swerved right--- his heart pounding in his ears like the footsteps that were gaining on him---- and grabbed the doorknob of the nearest house.