Not one walking by noticed Graffiti there. His determined gaze rested on the zigzagging, second-tallest building of all Ayzabin: the clock tower, with its large, round face radiating a mellow yellow, buttoned with two gnarled hands conveying half-past-one in the morning. The clocktower would have been the tallest building in Ayzabin if not for the ancient monstrosity towering a few miles behind. Within the silver lining of the city limits and the striped forest, practically splitting the valley in two, was a behemoth of a castle consisting of black spires that may or may not have skulls spiked through them. The castle was so large that, even during the entirety of the morning light, the city stayed shrouded in shade as the castle blocked whatever sunlight may manage to peek through the mountain tops.

Graffiti ignored the castle. He unpocketed a disheveled sketchbook and, after one glance at the clocktower, finalized a sketch of his master plan.

If a Normal Earth dweller like you saw him, you’d label him as just another average-looking adolescent, with his eyes as piercing as a platinum knife, the circles underneath as dark as a black rose, and his skin as brown as smoked bamboo. His black hair curled out from under his cap and his long bangs furled over his right eye. The hoodlums in town know this young man as ‘Graffiti.’ To their ignorance (or they just didn’t bother to ask), that wasn’t his real name, but was a nom-de-guerre he’d gladly answer to over his birth name—which he loathed with a passion. And I’ll tell you right now, you won't find an angstier seventeen-year-old punk. He wasn’t in festive costume like everyone else. He disliked such childish affairs. He kept to his commoner khaki slacks, his open purple vest dotted with golden gear stitching, and his big black cloth belt that covered his abdomen.

After tweaking his sketch, he gave a smirk and slapped his book shut. Still, no one noticed him there. There was too much life happening in the streets for his presence to be known. He cleared out of that scene in a rush and ran down street after dancing street, dodging horned clowns here and stomping ogres there, until he arrived where the roads were roomier and quieter.

At the corner of 34th and 3/7th Street, a long albeit straight shot from the clock tower far-off, not a soul lingered. That is, until the gang members entered the area at the same time from different routes. They stopped at the sight of what awaited them: piles of ropes, paints, brushes, and the crate of paint grubs resting by a manhole.

“Well, here’s the fruit of the Duo’s work,” said one of the gang members while they all crowded around the stolen goods. “But where's the Duo, themselves?”

Graffiti spotted a letter on top of the crate. He snatched it up, reading to himself: ‘We’re robbers, not painters. You kids have fun. Hugs and kisses. Signed, the Duo of Terror.’

“Dammit, Duo,” Graffiti said to the letter, peeved. He motioned to the others. “All right, we gotta keep going with the plan. Grab everything here and go down the manhole.”

“I’m not going down there,” said the snakanth. “That’sss grosss.”

Graffiti pushed him in. (Splash!)

The rest scooped up the stuff and jumped down. Graffiti hauled the crate of paint grubs under his arm. The next moment, he was ankle-deep in questionable water, leading the crew straight down a dark, cramped tunnel.