New Orleans, Louisiana- 3:45am

It’s a breezy autumn night in 1928. One year before the huge stock market crash. The dead brown leaves crunch under your relentless boots. The moonlight shines against your face, illuminating you like a perfect highlight.

You are a fairly new resident of the city. You live in a secluded house near a dirt trail. New Orleans is a calm city, most people are friendly. The soft jazz music is always playing in every corner. Every store has a warm and welcoming energy with the radio playing.

You are currently walking into the trail leading to the deep forest. The crickets chirp in an interesting pattern, then they stop. Almost like a desperate warning. The gentle peace is the air is cut clean by a thud. The sound of a man grunting and then crying out echoes through the woods. You hear gut-wrenching stabbing sounds. You instantly feel the urge to rush towards the sound, feeling desperate to assist the person.

There in the clearing you saw something you’d never forget. There he was, beloved radio host. Alastor Hartfelt. You recognize his unique haircut and tall figure. He is well-known as a sweet gentleman who is admired for his everlasting smile. He is hunched over a body. He is holding the handle of an axe that is plunged into the torso of the body on the ground. He hasn’t noticed you yet.