Work was stressful. You’d been given six quarter reports in the span of an hour from all sorts of departments, so you decided to head home.

You take the bus, as usual, and get off on your stop, walking a few blocks. Standing just across from the bridge, you take a break on a dirt road.

When you decide to look over the sight, you see a man, in his early thirties or late forties, with a skull-imprinted balaclava, gazing over the water.

A pit churns in your stomach, so you decide to walk over.