[b]Central City 
[/b]

Black skirts swirling around her feet in a colossal mess of fabric, Olivia walked in the direction of her thief. Not in a hurry, nor at leisure, she grasped the front of her skirts to hold them out of the way of her feet. She pushed herself forward, annoyed now, having passed her preferred destination several blocks back. 

After several minutes of trying not to run, she slowed. The thief was out of eyeshot now, the alley he had hidden inside empty. However, others were huddled together in the area. Taking a step backward, Olivia noticed the building beside the alleyway, and the establishment's purpose. About six of its resident whores stood, shivering and shocked. None spoke, their eyes and minds filled with terror and sadness, the sort that Olivia could recognize in anyone. That horror which pervades the heart, of seeing a friend perish.

The oldest seemed in a better state of mind than the others. Still clutching her shawl with blistered, pale fingers, eyes wide and lips trembling, she was able to stand straight, supporting two of the other girls. They could not have been older than twenty- the youngest, barely fourteen. Olivia felt for her purse, and at the realization that she could not help, became increasingly irritated. Still, though it was not much, she sought some way to aid the girls.

Approaching the cluster cautiously, Olivia knelt by the youngest. Brushing the matted hair from the girl's eyes, she offered a sympathetic smile, and a hand. The girl stared, not knowing who the stranger was. Olivia reached up, and took off her own scarf- it was not doing much good as a fashion accessory, anyways- and wrapped it over the girl's shoulders. Standing again, she kept walking. She needed to know what caused their distress.

A few men were talking- two distinct voices, in low tones, just soft enough that she could not understand the conversation. Straining to hear, Olivia crept forward with caution and curiosity filling her head with outlandish suggestions. She rounded the corner, unsure of what to expect. There was no warning when she saw the blood.

She had seen blood before, every woman has, she more than most, but never in such a decidedly messy manner. The girl's face, petrified in such an awful expression, her throat sunken and split, her eyes staring into an empty sky, added up to an incredible image of horror. This was like nothing she had seen before. She had heard the rumors, the stories of a butcher on the streets, warnings to the women who walked in the night. She had dismissed these as idle fantasies of sick minds, yet had entertained the thought in her own human way. But in her mind, the scene she had imagined had been much less... intimate.

Olivia let out a shriek, on impulse, hands shooting upwards to cover her scream. It was short, but enough to draw attention. She stumbled backwards a few steps, trying not to let the shock take over her senses completely. She could not even see the officers. The only thing she could focus on was the blood, the intensity of its blackness, like a painting of the darkest of minds. She hoped never to meet the artist.

This girl was too young to die so horribly.

It took a moment before she could spare a few words, to address the officers. She gained her composure back again, and straightened her posture. Her hands still trembled, so she gripped her skirts, keeping them clear of the pool of blood. Eyes fixed on the girl, she whispered, "Why would anyone do this?"