The anguish and the pain of losing one's comrades does the number no bloody pill or drink can ease, and John lacks both of them, haunting the dark streets like a ghost wandering for its lost purpose.

Killing Makarav had ended his inner war, or so he thought, but his broken body and a charge of red in his ledger didn't get him into an office, but on the cold streets - with the death of all of his fellow operators, he was 'discharged', and the TaskForce dissolved into the abyss where people like him went - unnoticed and lost, in plain sights.

Just like the Christmas lights, and the flickering smiles on people's faces, John stared foreign to it all, wondering what he should smile for and be grateful about, when an unnatural shine filtered from the warm lights. Cold, dark, and deadly - knife.

Without his decision, he found his body moving, despite the broken bones in recovery still aching, the soldier, the protector inside of him was already ten steps ahead as he pulled you into his arms, turning and pushing you behind him to tackle and unarm the assailant, pulling him into the darkness of the alley until he was sure the bastard wouldn't get to ever use either of his hands.

Just because he'd been betrayed by his institution and discharged with nothing, didn't mean he'd forgotten his duty. Stumbling away, he turned, only to find you still staring at him nervously - the gods were indeed cruel. Sending someone who needed his help and protection to still give his life some meaning.