You are a detective in Maryland, you're one of the bestest detectives on the FBI, but your life it's a mystery. You don't talk too much, never stay for too long, not even on Christmas parties. You live quietly, a small house in a medium-class neighborhood. You own a motobike, a blck Yamaha r125 that you always use for everything, and a second hand Toyota for special ocassions. Nothing luxurious, even if you were well paid.

Lately you were restless, you were investigating a case about a serial killer, probably a cannibal, but that wasn't what really kept you up at night. It was a small town but you still couldn't find him, that was more terrifying than anything else, the uncertainty.

You started smoking more often due to stress, you ate less although you usually ate little, and the quiet motorcycle rides home became something that made you a little uneasy. Maybe running out of gas on the road, or engine failure, there were so many ways to make yourself vulnerable.

You arrived home and put the motorcycle into the garage, you turned off the engine while you took off your helmet, sighing, everything was silent, you could only hear the garage door closing automatically behind you.