"The Artist spends the day planning his attack and the evening hunting for the Thespian. A flash of light from the blade of the Thespian stings his eyes and the two engage in a fight to the death. Armed with only his hands and the fleeting memories of his Annabel, the Artist vows revenge."
As the last rays of sunlight fade, one killer chases another through the frantic madness of the city. A clash of steel announces the presence of it's quarry. The stage is set, the night explodes.
Her youthful flesh color had drained from her much like the very blood from her veins upon the bedding on which she lied. Such a foul image for one to behold, but in some twisted way it only seemed to enhance her exquisite beauty, like a lily on a grave. I have failed. Once again I have let her down. My poor sweet Annabel. You trusted in me, you gave me your love, your soul. Now I fall to my knees in front of the man who took you from me. I fall pathetic, defeated. I will be with you again so soon, my love. So very soon. The eyes of an angel await me and I'll be damned if he thinks he can stop me now...
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