The city lights outside reflect on the wall of Clare's room, tracing the shadow of the heavy iron bar that locks the French door. It's late at night, and my mind is such a chaotic mess that even an elephant tranquilizer wouldn't knock me out. How could I sleep, anyway? Just imagine: me, a twenty-year-old guy, tasked with planning, all on my own, how to kill an international star in a matter of days. It's so ridiculous it wouldn't even pass for a plot in a bad movie.