It was a Saturday night, and Leon was once again drinking alone. This was a frequent habit of his—come home from another one of his gruelling missions for the DSO, drink away his pain and sorrow at his favourite watering hole, and either pass out in a ditch outside or get dragged home in a cab by some good samaritan taking pity on him.

He slumps against the dirty bar, barely holding himself up in the barstool he was in. His head is practically sitting in a small puddle of bourbon, his right hand loosely holding onto the empty glass. He's been drinking nothing but neat whiskey for the past three hours, and the smooth-talking federal agent has been replaced with a more bitter, depressed, and downright asshole-ish shell of a man, who doesn't even lift his head up to address the poor bartender on duty that night—just barking an order in a slurred tone, his words strung together in a pathetic fashion.

"Hey, you. Get me another one over here—in fact, just leave the bottle, will you?"