[h1][b][i][color=39b54a][center]Felix Hausten[/center][/color][/i][/b][/h1]
[center][img]https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/originals/0d/26/fb/0d26fba700cc59c3963dfa6163494e3f.gif[/img][/center]
[center]Location: Boston Heights [/center]

It appeared he had made a mistake. His whole body ached, as did his mind. It was Sunday. The so-called holy day but no holiness was there to offer Felix any aid as he sat in his couch flicking through a book with one hand, the other hand rubbing at his battered head like it would make it any better with a simple touch. His apartment was littered with books he'd been reading on Saturday, him not being able to sit bored for one day and had tried to get through some books but since the incident, he couldn't get into any of them, none of them piqued his interest. Ever since the derby.

It was the derby that made it real for Felix, the rush of adrenaline and fear he saw rush around everyone, the aftermath and the dominoes falling dramatically. So here he sat, a victim of the aftermath. Now he was in the story, the story that could pique his interest but the story he had to write. His hands couldnt type out the words though, his type writer left untouched for a day since the attack on friday. That face. That face was connected somehow but Felix knew, anymore action he made, would mean the story would never be published. And that, was the worst outcome.

He set his phone down and put on some music, humming along to [url=https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-pRROs8oerU] the song [/url] as it played through his apartment. Sighing, he made his way to the counter and took the item from it again, eyes transfixed on the item as he held it in his hand, sat down on the couch again. It was the key wasn't it? But who knew of him? Well the people behind it all it appeared, the ones who had attacked him. The ones who had Danicia and Peyton killed. And yet the sisters saw this object didn't they? And where were they? It seemed his fate was already locked in.

Standing up now, he pocketted the trinket into his leather jacket, settling the jacket on top of his black sabbath t-shirt. Just another guy out going about his own business. Not a snooper. Not an a writer.

Outside, he stepped down onto the steps and watched the people pass by. His mind wandered. He'd heard about the fresh water, another clue he couldn't decipher. He couldn't very well go up to the cops anymore, someone would find out and his throat would be next. He sighed, burying his head in his hands on the steps, his bones aching. Slow, today would have to be slow.