Prologue

" You've seen better days, that's for sure."

A man looked at himself in a broken mirror hanging on the wall of a dirty and dingy bathroom. The dust and grime crusting over the tile on the walls, and the bright LED light flickering, struggling to stay on. Although distorted from the cracks, the man's reflection looked back at him. His skin and clothes, covered in dust, one eye bloodshot and a wound on his side that had blood steadily seeping through his dirty white shirt. The man rinsed his face off in the sink and slicked back his shaggy silver hair. He then headed into the kitchen of the small, destroyed apartment. It had looked like a storm had blown through the room. The lights were barely hanging on to wires from the ceiling, broken glass and furniture was spread all throughout the apartment and bullet holes riddled the walls and cabinet doors. The man opened the fridge, the light was so bright it was practically blinding.

"Good to know this still work." The man said squinting his eyes and holding his wound.

As his eyes adjusted, he saw a half empty bottle of whisky. He pulled out the bottle and put it on the counter. He rummaged through some cabinets to find a glass, pulling the cabinet door off of its hinges in the process. He sighed as he looked at the now disconnected cabinet door in his hands.

"Fucking Christ, can I get a break?"

As he said that, pain shot through his torso, his ribs ached from the wound and the blood dripped down to his right leg. He groaned in pain as he rested his head on his arm leaning against the counter, preventing him from collapsing to the ground. He lifted his head up and saw two glasses on the shelf in the cabinet.

Footsteps could be heard walking into the apartment, shuffling and kicking at bits of concrete and wooden debris. The man turns his head to see a thin dark silhouette in the doorway. The man gives a smirk as he leans against the counter for balance.

"How nice of you to drop by. Hey, can you do me favor and turn on that light please?" He says pointing at the light hanging over a small table.

The dark figure walked up to the table and pressed the button to turn on the lamp. Meanwhile, the man stumbled backwards a bit when trying to prop himself up. He regained his balance and grabbed the glasses with each hand from the shelf. He put both glasses on the table and slid the clean glass over to the figure. He grabbed the bottle of whisky off of the counter and filled up his bloody glass then filled up the clean one. The man grabbed ahold of his bloody wound and slowly brought himself down into the chair, groaning in pain as he did. The man slowly twisted his body for comfort as he reached for his hip. He pulled out a peculiar looking pistol and laid it down on the table. The pistol was mat black with a chrome threaded barrel and a digital counter on the side of the slide with an orange three.

"So... Let's talk." The man said cocking back the ring styled hammer on the pistol.