Quillian B. Inkheart was at rock bottom. The love of his life was gone. His inspiration – his muse – was dead. He couldn't write like this. His friends, unable to stand his constant negativity and reclusive behavior, left him behind. That was the plan, after all. None of them understood what his heart told him. None of them could see. In fact, he didn't want them to see. After all, he didn't want them trying to stop him.

The taste of cold steel is bitter. The whispers of it's beckoning call are alluring. The soft feeling of completion in the darkness' embrace. The slow squeeze. The silence. Though he'd tasted it once before, he'd never embraced that silence. Now, he'd find it once more. This time, he wasn't certain he'd be able to resist the gentle whisper of the steel.