PROLOGUE

Some are poetry alive. Some are pure poetry in death.

I find men whose invisible horns are sharpened to cut, men like my father; I destroy their masks of deception and cruelty and immortalize these monsters. In stories. For eternity to come.

Death is a mercy I offer, and the blood I spill is their absolution. It’s mine, too.

I’m a fucking writer.

I’ve always been captivated by stories crafted with such masterful precision until the words become worlds, and worlds become infinite threads of possibilities.

I write stories… With knives.

Because pen and paper aren’t enough for some stories.