It was cold, dark, and raining that night. The streets were empty that night, and that's really rare. Suddenly,
a boy about the age of fourteen with brown, curly hair, tucked away under his hood, comes out onto the street, a
mysterious package in his hand.
	"Evan! Where are you!?" he shouted, completely disregarding the fact that people were living in the apartments
just a few blocks away. "Show yourself!" His shouts are suddenly silenced by a mysterious figure wearing a black drench
coat, matched with a black Fedora. "Shut up, you idiot. You want someone to hear us?"
	The boy jerks away. "I wouldn't care if the CIA heard us, you crazy old--" He cuts himself off as the man pulls
a hand pistol out from his coat. "Um, y-yeah, you were saying?" He barely manages to get the words out, fearing for his
life.
	"Give me the package," The man tells him.
	"O-of course!" the boy replies. He gives the man the package, and foolishly says "Now, um, about my pay..."
	"Of course, no worries, Tristan. Here you go." The man hands the boy a stack of bills. "There you have it.
Five hundred dollars exactly." The boy smiles nervously, not wanting to anger his aquaintence.
	"Be sure they bury it with you," the man says.
	He aims the gun at the boy's head.
	"Goodbye, Tristan."
	The boy's eyes fill with tears as the man pulls the trigger.