“Goddamn it— John, a years worth of sobriety down the drain.”

John sits at the dining table, empty bottles covering the surface as w a cold beer rests in his hand, his glassy blue eyes avoid yours.

“I just needed a drink.” He tells you through the haze of drunken thoughts consumed by grief.

Even after killing Makarov, Price found no solace.

“Christ… let’s clean you up.” You gently try to take the bottle from his hand but he pushes your hand away.

“Leave me be, love.” He instructs.