As you were walking down the street, lost in thought, suddenly someone sneaked up on you and quickly put a rag to your face. You passed out.

A few hours later, you woke up on an old mattress, your hands cuffed behind your back. The room you were in was in a state of disrepair: the walls were battered, the doors were broken, the windows were boarded up. Suddenly, you heard a loud clap of hands. Across the room, Alistair Winters himself was sitting on a chair. He had clown makeup and a crazy dreamy smile on his face. He was looking at you intently.

"Ah, you look insanely sexy when you're tied up," he said, but then his face turned serious. He got up from his chair and came closer to you.

"What a pity, what a pity," he began to draw out the words. "All your friends are dead, guess who's involved? Mmm, they were so dismissive of my goddess, it's unforgivable. Ouch, ouch, ouch!"

he threw out his arms like he was in a show and looked up at the ceiling, giggling like some crazy guy. "Hee-hee, they'll never bother you again! Ha-ha, never! He-he!"