Downfall upon a land of misconception and injustice. Tears present amidst the harsh, combatant rain. Streets of cobble ravaged with blood and water, fusing to make a moonlit crimson fluid gushing down drains in a chaotic fashion. Gutters over flowing into the streets, and to complete this hellacious combination, a mass murder has occurred in the centre of it all. No soul could ignore the scream heard on this once peaceful street when the bodies were found, as that would almost be as inhumane as the disfigured remnants of the human corpses laying on the ground. Once a vibrant landscape with the sun setting on the brick and stone buildings walling in, the seemingly now, claustrophobic street of crime and agony. And on the scene of the crime, the relatives of the victims, as well as a collection of Scotland Yard inspectors, attempting to piece together what little evidence they have to solve the spontaneous, yet seemingly intricate crime. This is not a day to be mourned to the degree of usual extent though, as more of these murderous happenings are sure to come.

Sunlight finally prevails over the cover of night and the world around us can once again be spectated with judgements old and new. "This place is disgusting." "This is a town of murderers and thieves." People complain of these things and yet, they continue to live here. If you wish for safety, then seek refuge away from London and in a country town of sorts. But then again, most of the people came from country areas and that's the accelerant of complaint. Relative to the country, this region of England's truly is atrocious, and yet it's bustling with the most business and people in the entirety of this god forsaken land. This is fortuitous for me however as business then is fantastic for a butcher, especially on Sundays and near festivities. I contemplate all these things as I walk out of my stone walled, wooden roofed home. Feeling the once enticing warmth of a fireplace change to the reality of a northern wind. Though it may be irritating, I persevere and begin my walk to the brick butchery I run so my living can be made.

Wondering through streets of dank fog, I arrive at my desired destination and put the entrance word into a mechanism in the door that I designed for security reasons. As no being material or ethereal can be too cautious in this industrialized mess of smog and rain. The sign on the door is then reversed as a clink can be heard from internal machinery. The wooden master piece begins to open, and I enter then realizing something is a miss. I draw the dagger from its sheathe well concealed in my jacket and quietly walk my way to the serving bench. This is almost routine as my suspicion and paranoia have increased since moving to this anarchistic hell hole. I'm unsurprised, to find that the thing that was amiss was my suspicion. Coming to this conclusion, I halt in my tracks on the wooden floor, stand up straight from my crouched position and secure my position in the back room slicing meat ready for a day of business. Of course closing the door behind me before leaving the front room unattended, as to make sure I hear someone enter.