Everyone stood crowded in the doorway of the small, unlit room. No one made a sound. The bed was flipped on it’s side with long gashes in the mattress, and the desk sat in pieces on the ground. That wasn’t what the small crowd was staring at though. Instead, they were fixated on the figure of a young teenage boy laying face down on the blood stained carpet.

He was supposed to be the main character. The one the story was based upon. Now he dead, and no one knew what to do next. Who would take over? Who would the story follow now? They didn’t know.

Later that night the group dispersed. They spread out along the streets of the large city and tried to figure out what to do with themselves. Many of them had no home since it had not been necessary to the storyline. Eventually though, they would all discover their own story to follow. One where their part was not chosen for them.

Long after the others were gone, an old, wrinkled man hobbled his way up the creaky steps and into that dark room. He knelt beside the body and retrieved his own knife from the boy. He wiped the blood from the blade on the bedsheets and pocketed it. That knife had helped him free so many people, and he had found his next target.