Night fell.
In Hell's Kitchen, a man walked down the street.
His eyes were steeped in sorrow and hatred.
"Hey, old man."
A punk taunted him. "Looking for your missing wife out here?"
The punks burst out laughing at that.
The man merely glanced at him, and that single glance made the laughter catch in the punk's throat.
Humiliated, the punk was about to go over and pick a fight.
But the man had no interest in them.
He looked up at the high-rises of Hell's Kitchen.
The murderer who had killed his wife and children might be somewhere in those towering buildings.
When the man ignored him, the punk flew into a humiliated rage and came over with his buddies.
"If you're guilty, you have to die."
The man glanced at the punks sprawled on the ground. Fortunately, none of them had done enough to deserve death.
"I need some weapons," the man murmured.
And in the United States, there was never any shortage of ways to get weapons.
Matt's home.
Matt, the kindhearted lawyer, knocked the woman out with an injection.
It looked like something out of some bizarre story.
Fortunately, the righteous attorney had no such sordid intentions.
Faced with the bound woman, helpless and entirely at his mercy, he could only feel exasperated.
The woman had been too agitated to talk to, let alone extract any clues from.
John had dumped her on him, making this quite a test for Matt.
Suddenly, the sound of a stick tapping the floor reached him, and Matt whipped his head around.
Someone had entered his home.
An old man, just as blind as he was, stood behind Matt.
"Your life has made you let your guard down."
He heard that familiar voice, then caught that familiar scent.
Matt