A solitary figure jogs along the rural moonlit path, a dark hooded cloak concealing him. The city's only about four kilometers away by a liberal estimate, and he's figured that whoever the hell is chasing him won't reach it until about eight in the morning, giving him just enough time to reach the place and either find a generous soul to stay with for a couple of days or to disguise himself as one of the homeless. (As of now, the latter seems easiest, as he both looks and feels the part. Poor man - hasn't had a good meal in at least a week, nor a bathe in just as long.)
His name is Victor. No surname - unfortunately, he was orphaned at the age of three; it's nearly the nineteenth anniversary of his parents' murder.
The city grows closer. Eventually, he hurries through the gates, sitting on a nearby bench. He soon begins to nod off despite the gnawing hunger in his stomach. He tries to stay awake, but the world around him quickly grows hazy. In minutes, it's pitch-black, and his dreams begin to dance.
