An all too un-ordinarily ordinary occurrence is currently underway, somewhere far beneath the city, under the cover of the dark mossy walls and dank air; the people of the night- mischievous people they are- oddballs, each of them. It is them who choose these hidden nooks and crannies underneath the the bright and beautiful city to mask their displays* and carry out their plots.

One of shrouded figure, right now, is slushing and slashing and laughing a hysterical laugh. The glint in his eyes is not only a reflection of light being emitted by the tiny oil lamp but a youthful glistening soul enjoying every moment of childlike play. The victim however, is swaying, as if dancing a fine line with death- as each precise slice that the man orchestrates, an exasperated meander is reflected in his victim's movements. Like one's true, final waltz, the two dance.

A muted thud is heard and a short silence pierces the sewers- quickly, a plummy voice drills into the brick walls; "Peter! You see! This is ambition! Only the strong survive, dear boy!"

Peter's heart beat slowly falls into silence beneath the gaze of this oddly dressed man, his face as if it were stone, is frozen with a pleading look.

Leaning in, the man coldly whispers something in a more cynical tone, the words crawling down Peter's ear- "M'boy, if only the rain was this scarlet red, and this sewer an opera stage. Oh, how my dearest friends would have loved to see our show!"

A sudden burst of laughter shredded through the mossy walls like thunder through the city above, the odd man's face being framed by the light of one measly oil lamp paints a grim last image for Peter and the world fell dark once again. Not for the black clouds above but rather a sinister air blanketing the picture perfect monopoly above.