The man's mouth was pursed, his eyes lingering on the state of decay to which the room had succumbed. The walls were dark and ashen, the faded green wallpaper peeling where it still stuck to the cracked wood below. There were stray boards here and there on the floor – a perfect trap for the unsuspecting – and no dirty, low-end polyester rugs that attempted to fake something akin to fur could provide redemption . Dust was everywhere in every nook and cranny, something his nose immediately noticed with an insatiable tingle that he couldn't just sneeze away. The bed was ugly and plain; a white mattress stained yellow with no box spring, covered with rumpled gray sheets and a single white pillow. The only form of light was a half-melted candle in a glass jar and a small cracked window in the corner of the room that was stained with something indecent. “Honestly, Mr. Miles. Could you not choose a more decent home for your victims? the man asked sourly as he pulled on a pair of white plastic gloves and slipped them on. He shook his head as he opened his jacket to reveal a series of tools strapped inside; an unusual mix of cutting tools that would belong to a surgeon and cleaning tools that would be better suited to a janitor's toolbox. “Put a sock in it, Robert. It’s not my fault the kid can’t afford somewhere better than a rundown shack,” the man’s companion growled hoarsely, his dark eyes staring at the prone form before him. With a scowl, he spat on the bloodied body, almost mutilated beyond recognition. “Is this really necessary? I already have enough work to get rid of your tools and fingerprints, but now you're... middle of paper... all kinds of fury. Robert looked at the man in front of him, his eyes blank now, "Yes, we are." The door flew open and a stream of men dressed in black and blue poured in, guns cocked and ready. as they charged and pinned the culprit to the ground He did not resist, allowing them to brutally tie his arms behind his back and chain them with handcuffs. A pair of polished boots came in front of him and he. looked up into the cold but victorious gaze of the sheriff himself "Robert Miles, you are under arrest for the murder of twenty people, men and women," the officer said, and the man hissed. thin and filthy, his clothes stained with blood, was picked up and dragged from the room. If anyone had expected resistance, they would have been surprised to find that the man was willingly walking with him, and even more so would have been. was the complacent smile on the man's bearded head..