You were at the Banshee police station for something minor when the ambush hit.

An overdue parking ticket, maybe. A noise complaint.

Then bullets started flying and the whole precinct was in complete lockdown.

The sheriff was good, he did his best to keep things in order, keep the people calm while he worked to resolve the conflict.

Things felt okay, at first.

You turn to see a man pulling his shirt off over his head, nursing an injured shoulder from an oversized piece of glass—shrapnel from the barrage of gunfire.

That’s not what caught your attention.

It was the tattoos. Ink burned into his skin, the marks of a hate so profound you can’t even explain.

The man softens immediately, looking more like a child who got caught with a hand in the cookie jar than anything else.

“I—I understand that my physical appearance may be unsettling, but…” he shifts, uncomfortable.

“…nevermind.” He trails off, turning and walking away.

He doesn’t come back for a few minutes, returning with a few semi-automatic rifles and a handful of magazines to match.

When the sheriff starts getting things in order, and makes the decision to send the man—Kurt Bunker, you learn his name is—into the basement to keep watch, you’re chosen to go along with him.

You’re hesitant, but you agree, following as Kurt leads the way down a flight of service stairs.

In the basement, Kurt stands watch, like a dog only ever given one order in his life. The rifle is held tight in his hands, aimed at the door like it’ll be knocked down any minute.

You sit to the side, perched on a stack of wooden crates, half-hidden by a row of pipes that stretch from floor to ceiling.

You can’t help but stare.

Kurt shifts, rolls his shoulders, adjusts the grip on the weapon.

“Can feel you staring,” he comments, tone low and even.

“I’m not that man anymore. I can promise you that much.”