| rdfs:comment | - Midnight quickly fell over Manhattan. Its crowded streets, filled to the brim with people, walking home, striding over to the restaurants, meeting up with old friends: it seemed there were so many people that it was better to think them as a whole, rather than each individual one by one. What is one man amongst a million others? There was, indeed, one man amongst a crowd on Houston Street. Most of the crowd was walking back to Soho to go home. But this man was different. He wasn't going particularly anywhere. He wandered the streets, not a tramp, but more a solitary, lone figure, going nowhere, coming from nowhere. His name was Ethan Richardson.
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| abstract | - Midnight quickly fell over Manhattan. Its crowded streets, filled to the brim with people, walking home, striding over to the restaurants, meeting up with old friends: it seemed there were so many people that it was better to think them as a whole, rather than each individual one by one. What is one man amongst a million others? There was, indeed, one man amongst a crowd on Houston Street. Most of the crowd was walking back to Soho to go home. But this man was different. He wasn't going particularly anywhere. He wandered the streets, not a tramp, but more a solitary, lone figure, going nowhere, coming from nowhere. His name was Ethan Richardson. As he wandered along Houston Street, his mind wandering, a cold shadow passed. It passed not only on him, but the entire crowd. And then a horrible, earth-shattering howl of pain sounded from the alley to the right. People turned their heads towards the noise, some screamed, some tensed, and some even ran, as a dark figure staggered out of the alley. People stepped back as he howled some more, clutching himself and lurching. "Hey, hey, are you okay?" someone within the crowd asked. Some walked towards the screaming, writhing, twisting man, taking his clenched arms and steadying him. "Someone call 911," one person said. "There's something wrong." Ethan took a curious step towards the man, studying him curiously. He was dressed in a tan trench coat that was frayed and stained and a black shirt made of some fabric. As he looked closer, a cold-hand gripped his heart: there was a small logo of sword outlined in red. Redknight. He turned away and ran, still not knowing where he was going to, but he just knew he was running. As he left, the man's screams and writhing subsided as people pulled him along, a police cruiser arriving along with an ambulance. The policemen took the man by his arms and tried to move him along, but the man was stone solid. A low, menacing, throaty growl emerged from his throat. His eyelids were closed. The policemen stared at one another, unsure what to do with this rare find. The man's eyelids snapped open. The screaming began.
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