The cafeteria of McKinley High school buzzed excitedly that lunchtime, the voices of hundreds of attention-seeking teenagers echoing off the walls and linoleum floors. As any American public school, McKinley's cafeteria could only be described as a jungle. The tables were separated into cliques (predictably), each table consumed by a world of their own, whether it be the world of punk rock or pop charts. Head cheerleader Quinn Fabray gossiped amongst her hair-flicking minions while band geeks like Artie Abrams looked on longingly. Rachel Berry sat alone, practicing her musical scales while the Goths looked on irritably.

But the most apt participants of the 'jungle' metaphor were the jocks: the meatheads and princes of the McKinley social order, not adverse to knocking their heads together and grunting at one another if it meant asserting their animalistic authority. As the aforementioned meatheads of McKinley, lunch in the cafeteria would usually see them guffawing and fist-bumping as they scarfed down their tater-tots, preying on the less fortunate and being generally sadistic. Today was no different.

"Hey, homo!"

There was a splattering noise and the entire cafeteria fell silent. Kurt Hummel stared in horror at the contents of his lunch tray, now stained across the front of his waistcoat. Everyone stared as Azimio stepped close, towering over the boy.

"Oops." He said quietly, and he walked away.

As the chatter once again rose, and the scene ended, Kurt remained where he stood, glancing around the cafeteria for any sign of help. But the cheerleaders were gossiping; the geeks were debating; and even the loners like Rachel Berry were paying him no heed. As usual, it was like nothing had happened.

The streets seemed quiet and peaceful at this time of night.

In the empty suburban streets of Lima, Ohio, one would not expect overmuch in the way of danger or mystery. Within the neat single story houses, with their tidy little driveways and gardens, the residents slept. The sound of light traffic could be heard in the distance, the soft thrums of music weaving through the still night air. The light of the street lamps glittered upon the road.

So it was odd that there should be a man in a heavy black coat and hat, hurrying round the corner at a pace that suggested anything but peace. Perhaps it was his quick footsteps, or the way he glanced constantly over his shoulder. Perhaps it was the sight of a stranger's blood upon his cheek, or the gun clenched firmly in his left hand. His footsteps barely made a sound as he trod faster – past number 32 - faster towards what he seemed to think was safety. Perhaps if he went faster, he could escape the very real horror of retribution. After all their planning, months of careful activity and sidestepping the authorities, they'd thought they'd won. They'd thought...

It was no more than a shadow, out of the corner of one's eye, but it made his breath hitch and his steps falter. Number 24. He glanced around. The street was silent as ever.

He didn't see the flash of movement behind him.

He continued to move, increasing speed once more, but his eyes never ceased their anxious roaming. His footsteps grew heavier. They beat against the pavement. Which was louder? The sound of his shoes against concrete? Or the desperate pounding of his guilty heart?

From somewhere behind him, a trashcan rattled. A scavenging cat, surely.

He quickened his pace. Number 18...

He was breathing heavily now, from panic more than anything else. Wide, cold eyes darted incessantly in their sockets. His fist clenched white around the handle of his gun. The sweat on his brow mingled with the blood on his cheek. The final deeds of this night were not yet done.

A trashcan fell suddenly with a reverberating clang, rolling noisily down number 3's driveway. With a yelp, the man spun around, his gun in the air and aiming. The trashcan rolled slowly to a stop, spilling its contents across the ground. The street was empty.

"Who's there?" The man hissed; a hushed yell. He pointed the gun this way and that. His hands shook. "Show yourself!"

Silence. There was nothing there.

With a grunt of frustration, the man turned round once more –

-But there was already someone there.

"Shit!" He gasped, but it was too late. His gun was suddenly flying in the air, falling to the ground six feet away. He stepped backwards, trapped, looking for an escape. The girl before him strode forwards after him, caging him with her slanted blue eyes.

"Please," He begged, stumbling into number 1's letterbox, "I didn't mean it, please."

The girl gave him a bright smile; "I'm sorry, but you did a bad thing, and I don't really think you should get away with it."

"What - "

He didn't see the other girl - a devil in red, a messenger of retribution – step out behind him and she slam her fist into the side of his head. The last thing he saw were those beautiful blue eyes, sparkling from behind the mask of what could easily have been an angel.

In the empty suburban streets of Lima, Ohio, one would not expect overmuch in the way of danger or mystery.

But things are never as they seem.