John takes another drag of his cigar, leaning back in his chair.

The room is dimly lit and the walls are dark, the only furniture in the room being the table and another chair. On top of the table a gun and a few bullets are laid out.

He was forced to sign a contract when they first brought him here. A simple game of Russian roulette against one of their finest soldiers. If he wins — he is to go.

It seems pretty tame.

The door swings open, two large men are at your sides, leading you into the spacious, but empty room. You’re being punished for misbehaving on your previous mission — going against orders.

Your gaze is lowered, but even then you can feel the heat of John’s stare, his eyebrows nearly meeting his damn hairline. “Absolutely not.” — the only words spoken by the big man as he emptied out the bullets of the gun.

“I’m not doing this to a damn kid.” He complains, his eyebrows drawing together as he takes in the sight of you — the preteen in front of him. He flings the now empty gun onto the table, bullets scattered on the concrete floor.