His face obscured by the shadows of the dimly-lit room, George Mordred sat forward in his chair, fingers forming a pyramid. The room itself was bathed in darkness, with only a desk lamp providing slight illumination. With its polished wooden walls and floor, and (genuine) lion skin rug just after the door, it did not seem particularly inviting – even the books occupying the cases seemed to carry with them a sense of macabre satisfaction, in one grim subject or another. “Now, keep in mind that if you’re lying to me, I will skin you. Skin you like I was making leather.” The person speaking – obviously the higher-ranked of the two – did not look especially despicable. With short, mud-brown hair and eyes of a dull blue colour, his face held no visible malice. His neutral, inoffensive combination of grey suit and suit trousers made him look more of a businessman than anything, the same principle applying directly to his maroon tie and black, polished, formal shoes. However, his mind worked a mile a minute – it had already gone from zero to sixty. The other person partaking in the conversation was a skinny, blond fellow, dressed in similar attire, only with navy replacing grey. “I’ve found someone you may wish to know bout, sir. He’s bored, he’s smart, he’s got a sharp tongue, and he’s a trained kick-boxer.” “Oh?” “Sir, I’ve seen what he’s like. And the media are desperate for a story, a good one.” “Look, don’t be obvious, of course I’m going to do that to him. I just want to see how he tries to get out of it… Maybe I’ll throw in that other one, see if she can make a difference. Oh, what a genius does when he’s bored…” Spinning while sighing in his rotating chair, Mordred looked to his associate, cocking an eyebrow. “Well? What’re you waiting for? Make him dance before I make you into shoes.” ~ A student, eighteen a few months prior, had seated himself at a bus stop, and was passing the few remaining minutes by reading the paper. “Charity Reports Robbery, Two Dead” the cheerful headline read, the paragraphs below stating that during a break-in at a charity shop supporting war veterans, both a civilian and the woman behind the counter had been shot dead. It was still unclear who shot the, or who even broke in, but the investigation was not letting up. The person reading this article was not a very special person – only slightly shorter than the average height, his stature and build showed nothing that would stand out in a crowd. His ear-length, coal-black hair was possibly his most discerning feature, or his sharp, cobalt blue eyes obscured by black, rectangular glasses. Having had the day off, he was taking a trip into the a part of the city known for its wide variety of entertainment, and odd selection of gifts, as opposed to towering, grey buildings. As such, he was dressed casually (to his mind). A dark, ink-blue button-down shirt covered his torso, while denim jeans of a lighter shade of blue covered his legs, suspended by a brown, fake leather belt (the leather being fake, not the belt). His shoes, quite unusually, were the kind sold in shoe shops as if they were normal footwear, but seemed more suited to hiking – mud brown, lace-ups and looking as if they could withstand a steamroller. Quite oddly, nobody was around the general area, either inside or hurrying by – nobody was waiting for the bus, that spring morning.