In the dead of night, a man ran through the streets. He thought he was going to collapse, but he couldn't stop now. Lungs burning with effort, he stumbled along and turned into an alley. Grasping his chest, he panted heavily and coughed into his hand. Red fluid seeped through his hand and speckled a crimson pattern on his white silk shirt. His clothes were refined and full of flair that dubbed him a well to do man, not a commoner. There was a time when he actually took pride in what he wore, but he could care less about such things now.

Grunting, he held his side. It hurt more than anything he had ever felt before. If only he had moved just a little faster. The man looked down at the gaping wound and winced as pain shot through him once again. He couldn't last much longer; the blood loss was too great. He was no doctor but even he could see that his time on this cursed city was slipping though his fingers. I'm so tired; maybe I could rest just a moment. No, no I must go on before that…that thing finds me. He forced himself to move and limp further down the path.

The streets of the city were silent, only broken by the occasional late night partygoer. This was not Cheapside, for the rich should never be seen as drunkards on the streets; assuming it was not practiced in their personal home parlors. No, most were in clubs and ballrooms at this hour, not wandering alleyways. Only the daring and the no good were out and about, or so the wealthy imagined.

It seemed that this particular night was the evening that the city decided to look ghastly and surreal. And as the dense fog loomed its away around the structures, the atmosphere took on a haunted feel. Something was coming, the lone man knew it. No matter how far he ran, no matter how much he told himself that he would be fine, deep down he felt that flicker of doubt and that filled him with fear.

Crying out and clutching his side as the pain increased, he caught himself before he could fall headfirst into the mud from that morning's rain. Hunched over, he coughed and more blood dripped down onto the cobbled ground. I can't do this…I can't- he stopped and paled as he heard a footstep behind him. Turning, he looked around. There was nothing to be seen. He waited a moment longer before half dragging his right side, now soaked in blood, briskly down the alley. Feeling a flash of panic, he thought rapidly. Should I go to the police? What about the hospital? No, they won't do a thing; they'd never believe me. Oh, I don't feel so well…

He only got three steps before his legs gave out and he collapsed on the floor. He tried to rise but his strength had left him. The man breathed shakily as his body seemed ever so distant. Why couldn't he feel anything? His pain had vanished. A part of him was glad that he was released from the torment; at least he could go peacefully. His momentarily elation was short lived as a black leather boot entered his deteriorating vision, inches away from his face. A voice like steel reached his ears.

"Did you really think you'd escape?"

Though fading fast, the man shivered as fear flashed down his spine. No words could form on his lips as he glanced up at the dark figure before him that he could barely see.

"Don't worry," the figure continued, "you won't feel much."

All he heard was a faint chuckle before his world turned white and slipped into an endless darkness. Then, he felt no more. Lord Galeton was dead.

~This chapter was written by Nevermore77