[color=2e3192][h1][center]Alison Fitzpatrick[/center][/h1][/color]
[color=2e3192][h2][center]Club Carousel, Late Evening[/center][/h2][/color]

Alison put the finishing touches on her bedding. She’d created a fortress of blankets on Emerald’s floor, and for now, that would have to substitute for her apartment. She wasn’t allowed to get any of her things; Julie, her boy-toy, and the entire place were still part of an ongoing investigation. Emerald hadn’t returned yet. She was under the impression that the woman would be on her way up once closing time – an unearthly hour of 2:30 – arrived. That was fine. It gave her a few hours to reflect on her own.

After washing her face, Alison submerged herself into her incredibly comfortable blanket-fort. She’d set it right next to Emerald’s bed. As much as she didn’t want to be in the woman’s hair, she was still wary. She didn’t know why, though; her roommate’s murder seemed to be a crime of passion. Nonetheless, the darkness of that morning still lingered with her.

There would be no more of that. Alison had come to New York to find happiness. And that was exactly where she would head. Manhattan was a dirty place, filled with many secrets, but she would carve a fulfilling existence out of it. She knew she could – she had to. 

After a while, the door to Emerald’s apartment slowly opened and Alison smiled. She’d finally come home. Alison kept her face planted into the pillow as she tried to formulate the words she wanted to say to Emerald. She had to keep her ‘cool’ this time around – some form of gratitude, but far less intense than what she had offered earlier.

Emerald tapped her on the neck and Alison rolled over. “What?” However, upon looking, the silhouette before her was far larger than she’d expected. Emerald had put on some sort of large coat, and the figure in the dark was strange. “Emerald?” 

A laughing began to emanate through the apartment. It wasn’t her. A hoarse, grotesque tone of voice reverberated through the room.

No, no, no, no. The figure grabbed her by the arm and pulled her upright. “Please! I—“ The figure interrupted her by slamming his fist onto her lips, breaking several teeth and causing blood to pour out of her gums. Tears began to well up in her eyes. She could not see the figure’s face, but she could smell him. He smelled delightful – like a stunning mix of cologne and roses. She sobbed as he continued to hold her arm. He was strong; his very grip strained her forearm and kept her from moving.

“Help!—“ Her scream was once again silenced as the figure now held his palm over Alison’s mouth. He retrieved a glinting object from his belt, which upon holding out, appeared to be a machete. He jammed it into Alison’s gut and turned the blade. His muted hand could hardly even suppress her screaming. The pain was unbearable. Blood began to gush out of her chest. She made one last attempt to free her mouth and scream, and she successfully wailed into the hallway. “Help me!”

The figure decided that enough was enough. He shoved his blade into Alison’s eye and into her brain, impaling her head onto the wood of Emerald’s bedframe. She was gone. He ripped Alison’s other eye out of its socket and tossed it onto the floor. He retrieved his usual rose from his pocket and planted it inside of her free eyesocket, presenting a sickening bloom from inside her skull. Help would be on the way. He destroyed the window, climbed out of the fire escape, and disappeared into the darkness.