Some serial killers are innocent too. Some drug dealers are forced to. Some reputed ones are behind the scene too. Some common men are criminals too. Some police personnel are on sale too.

Docile Quinn impassively watches the rager heating up around him. Blue solo cup in hand, he drowns his hands into the thick, dark, mass of his hair. In a far off land, where red solo cups filled with Vodka dominate, apple juice was Quinn’s drink of choice. Tired of arson, tried of pills and filthy parties, Quinn doesn’t want to drag himself home in the dead of night anymore. Lengthy rigged video game lock-ins, rendezvouses with the town dealer, and snagging his brother, Jace, out of mayhem; only to be dragged back in again, rugged and exhausted are what fill his time. Gradually, his gentle frame is aching, and apple juice filled solo cups aren’t so satisfying anymore. Quinn tries to hold in the dark, sardonic, nature lurking deep beneath all the roundabout nights before breaking. No more ragers. No more pills, drug dealers, drunk truck drivers, or lurking around at night. No more blue cups.

A young orphaned girl is being protected but she doesn't know. A group attempted to murder her but she escapes. Her biological parents were killed for it and no one know that she is the one who holds it. What is it that is so important that even murders are committed?