His hand dipped slowly into the bucket. Dismayed at how little was left, he rubbed his palm along the bottom, collecting the last few bits of crimson upon his fingertips. His broken toothed smile turned to frown as he slapped his “brushâ€? against the wall and proceeded to color it in splayed-finger patterns of red.

The white of the walls was almost completely obscured by hundreds of random splotches of varying thicknesses and drip streaks. Flakes of color hung precariously from the wall on a few of the hand prints that had dried weeks ago. Nothing about the paint job indicated professionalism.

The room was absent of any furniture save for an overturned orange plastic chair that would be more at home in a school than the dark and dingy loft. The man, dressed in unclean denim overalls, looked at his empty bucket and sighed.

He reached for the bucket and a butcher knife that rested a few yards from his feet and headed towards the door, kicking a young woman’s severed head on the way out to get some more paint.