{one}

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This is a work of fiction. Any reference to people, places, things or other such brands came from me and is coincidental (or a product of my sleep-deprived, overactive mind).

Readers, please be aware! This story contains content and language not suitable for all readers. Please read at your own discretion. Also I'm currently rewriting this offline. This will change the book in parts. I'll update the changes once I'm done...

And one final note, although I'd rather you picture the characters in your head, since I can add images now and there's been a tad bit of confusion (completely my fault, I'm working on it), here's what I found to represent my MCs best.

Alessandra: (her eyes are a different color than in this picture)

And Dylan: (also different eye color) *Very minor spoiler: There's a reason he's wearing a vest

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And Dylan: (also different eye color) *Very minor spoiler: There's a reason he's wearing a vest.*

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Life's a bitch, and then you die.

These bitches needed to die.

The man looked around the wood-paneled room. His tools were hanging neatly on the wall in front of him, starting with the wrench and ending with the chainsaw. Although he rarely used all of them, order was a good thing. This lesson had been learned quite early in life. No one liked sloppiness.

He pulled out the switchblade from his pocket, a gift from his father. Ran his fingers over the smooth surface; looked at the golden blade. This weapon would get the job done for sure. His metal table sat against the wall to his left. He rubbed the wooden surface. Felt the grooves. Perfect despite its imperfections. All of the hours spent putting this together had finally been paid off.

The height had to be just right along with the added implements: a light, another knife plus a scalpel, and scissors. The beveled edges of the table allowed the blood to drip easily down to the multiple drains he'd installed.

The ritual had all been trial and error from his childhood spent in three different cities. The animals had been fun but didn't provide the rush that the first kill had. Then there'd been the break. Four years had been one mother of a cooling off period.

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