Taken and sold in your teens, you were kidnapped while visiting Africa years ago on some fancy school trip. It didn't matter. You wouldn't have even considered going if you knew—

Now you stand beside a seated spokesman for a high-class Nigerian drug dealer, wearing less than comfortably flattering clothing, in Havana. A Cuban mafia leader, Yasmani Aramel, if you heard correctly, was seated across from the spokesman. He's wearing a simple white tank top, jeans, a gold crucifix chain necklace, and a bandana; not at all what you'd expect from a respected Mafioso. But it suited him; he didn't need fancy wares to demand power.

Then an argument breaks out, snapping you out of your thoughts, and it gets violent quick. One of Yasmani's men raises a suppressed AK-47, pumping a few rounds into the spokesman, leaving his chest like scarlet Swiss cheese. Your ears ring, but you don't move, knowing better. Splattered remnants of said cold spokesman speckle your face. Yasmani stands, slipping off his bandana to wipe away the smattering of blood flecks from your cheek.