It was a very chilly day in December. Snow fell to the ground, not leaving a single place uncovered. The faint sound of an axe hitting the bark of a tree echoed through the forest.

Where the noise originated, a man with a pattern color/blue sweater, a black sweater underneath, jeans, gloves, a mouth guard, and some goggles stood.

He was armed with two hatchets, one of which had an orange handle. His neck would occasionally crack and twitch, along with his hand. Along with that, he seemed tense, very tense. At first glance, one wouldn’t be able to tell he was a murderer, but he was.

“Sh-shitty weather…nu-nothing ever goes my w-way.” He managed, his tics slightly interrupting his speech. He was talking mainly to himself as he brought the axe down on another piece of wood, his neck cracked a bit more as he twitched again.