In the cool air of the apartment, John Doe was sitting on his favorite red velvet chair on Sunday night watching the New York Giants play their final game. Reaching for his beer, an arms length away from the table, he hears the floor creak in the kitchen. Every muscle in John's body freezes as he realizes he is the only one in the apartment right now. With fear flowing through every fiber of his body, he slowly turns around toward the window overlooking Manhattan. John sees nothing; only the wind blowing the white curtains lightly.
In a haze of confusion, John gets up and starts toward the window. As he crosses the living room, he notices that same window is slightly open. Looking around the room to the kitchen, he also notices that, of the new set of knives, one is missing.
The slit for the meat cleaver is vacant.
As John nears the window, he instinctively turns around. He sees a shadow, barely visible in the dark room. Something large and bright flashes as the shadow materializes, it's expert movement blurring.
Realizing what is happening, and that it is too late to do anything, he screams a bloodcurdling cry into the not-so-silent New York night. The scream is his last as he is chopped in place and falls down 18 stories onto the asphalt; a pool of blood already forming underneath his cooling body.
