[i]What the hell am I doing.[/i]

Tyven's own voice echoed in the openness of the jittery nerves of his own mind. Each step his solid, canvas sneakers took towards the intended destination was another second of increasing anxiety and for him that wasn't a good thing. Thinking back to where he was before this very moment twisted his stomach inside out. Why did things like this make him so upset? Beads of sweat began to dot along his dark brown hairline and a drop formed on an even darker sideburn. 
Suddenly, the frantic impulse that he had been evading the whole time caught up with him, and he stuffed his hands in the depths of his pockets to feel a small plastic bag with tablets in it. A tiny wave of relief radiated throughout his body as he felt a select one travel down his esophagus; he could never let anyone know how good it felt.

He didn't know he long it was until he reached the block where the note specified -- all he knew was that he was already extremely paranoid. The sweat that had beaded earlier had dripped several times onto his stained t-shirt that clung to the sides of his pale belly-flesh. The streets were too quiet. A full and bright moon mocked the solo man as wisps of night-light hugged the contours of his gaunty face, nearly turning him into a walking skeleton. It wasn't the first time he'd been out alone at night, oh no. But for some reason the blackness of the shadows between block buildings haunted his presence more so than usual. A tick had him rub the inside of his wrist where a knife accident left a nasty cut-bruise combination; the tremendous pain felt good. Tyven was genuinely afraid of what was to come.

 The cameras that had followed him with their lenses focusing in and out turned toward where he was heading: the building. As he approached the site to where he was summoned, an uncalled for rush of anger overcame the fear, and without an announcement he leaped through an opened window with a single swift motion to confront the being who wooed him. Inside, he discovered three others.

"Who the fuck sent me this note," he directed to no one in particular. His hands crumpled the piece of paper into a ball that fit inside his wounded fist. The trail end of his question could be heard in the quaking rafters, and his voice shook with uncertainty.