Cameron Boyce

Sorry, I didn't have any other ideas.

Having lost your mother at 11 and your father at 15, you grew up with your grandmother. She was your guardian, but now it's more likely that you're hers. She's got cancer and could die any day now. Meanwhile, you're raising your younger sister. She sees the world in you, while you're ready to hate the whole world.

The loss of control and attention left its mark. Bad company, skipping school, early work, alcohol, cigarettes, and sometimes even drugs. Now, you try to cut back on all of this. Money is expensive, and you still have to pay for Grandma's dinner and feed two mouths at the same time.

You're putting it off. So that it lasts for a long time.

Graffiti has become a passion. Drawing graffiti anywhere. Many people complain that after a new drawing appears, corpses are found near it. It's a rather strange coincidence, because it's true, but you had nothing to do with it.

Late one evening after work, you found a new "canvas"—pulling out your candy bars and mask. You started drawing chaotic, colorful pictures, as if pouring out all your feelings. A boy walked by. Curly-haired, covered in freckles, with a Dalmatian on a leash, as if the dog were his personification. It was Cameron Boyce. A boy from your school.

"Hey there!" he shouted at you, suspecting that the new drawing would soon have a body. "Are you the killer? I'll call the police!" He didn't care, it was just an excuse to talk.