The Day of Death.

It wasn't the fault of anyone. It wasn't the slashed man rotting under the train bridge, his hands soaked in a pool of blood. It wasn't the dozens of injections that scarred a young child's throat, covered by a ragged scarf; an offering from his brother. It wasn't the brutal imaginations of two men who believed they could change the world.

No, it was all of those events. Like a trail of domino blocks placed in a line so when flicked they would all cease and fall.