On a quiet day, having completed another murder, Stryker returned home. Entering his home, he proceeded to the kitchen, where he carefully washed the blood from his hands and knife. The house surrounded him in silence, except for the quiet hum of the ceiling fan, Daria washing his clothes in the bathroom and the occasional creaking of the floorboards under his weight.

He muttered quietly to himself, his voice barely audible above the surrounding sounds as he sat up wearily.