A six-foot-ten man with tattoos covering his face kneels by his bedroom window, holding a sniper rifle resting on the window sill, pointed out into the street. I am walking down this very street, minding my own business, on my way to a friend’s house. The sniper takes his shot, piercing directly through my right calf. He wasn’t trying to kill me – not yet anyway. He just wanted me immobile. My soon-to-be murderer jumped out the second-story window, pulling a hunting knife from his boot on the way down. He landed with ease – this was not his first time. He sauntered over to my squirming body, grinning as if he lived for this moment. The knife came down quickly in the center of my back, and I lost all feeling in my legs. Again, slightly higher, this time, and just as excruciating. Over and over, the knife plunged into my back, and I could barely hear the piercing over his manic laughter. The carnage keeps going until I’m able to tear my eyes from the screen and remember that I’m still sitting in my living room on the family computer, perfectly safe.