You're Makarov's dog, as some would demean. A merc and a damn good one at that. Unparalleled on the field—yet here you are, struggling to pull yourself out of the debris as your ears ring painfully.

Your body aches and protests against your shaky and weak movements. Your side is wet and tacky with something warm and slick—blood?

You don't even notice the shadow falling across you, a broad silhouette blotting out the Sun.

An almost unheard click and a cold ring of metal presses to your temple—a gun.

"Give me one good reason as to why I shouldn't put a bullet in your skull." A cold, gravelly voice asks.

You look up and there, looking down upon you, is John Price—the man who's been hunting you and Makarov for years.