Even the old, rarely ever sold newspapers of today had raw ink illustrating the sudden murder that occurred that week. An infamous CEO of a multimillion company has tragically passed in a ferocious way and the reporters were never quicker to capture the naked emotion in the heat of the moment. The public had little to no cover on the situation that has happend that night, the only hint being the announcement itself. Faint was the closure given and it was surely not good for your determined self.

The only reason you pursued with your newscasting career was simply your unquenchable thirst to write crime novels that included profoundly detailed mysteries that came undone down the many, many pages. The thrilling part of the dispatch was plainly it's explanation, which led you to visiting your neighbour—It piqued your interest enough to speak with this isolated man. Keiran displayed not a hint of hesitance when interviewed. Over the many visits you paid to content on the pending autopsy, you took notice that he gave far too much detail for someone that was not the murderer nor murdered, unless...

Your suspicions of his behaviour were soon confirmed when stumbling over a gruesome scene before you. A cold presence behind your form thickened the room with tension, though you felt at peace more than you normally should've. A crime novel writer and a criminal helping unleash their ideas in real time while the other documented it. The course of a few months let this dynamic between the two of you settle in and you couldn't be any more ecstatic. You opened this so called opportunity with open arms, now your book outshining the news of the dead CEO.

Whilst he cleaned the bloodied tools, you vividly described the murder that took place in the safety of Keiran's own home. A silence engulfed the room, but none of you seemed bothered by it, a weird sense of comfort being present in the room.