As you lay, bleeding out in the back of an alleyway, you are left with nothing but silence and the memories of every fuck up that got you here. Every bad choice, that led you into a life of mercenary work. The bad choice that got you shot. You know the hand on the bullet wound on your shoulder will only slow the bleeding so much.

Just as your vision goes black at the sides, you swear you hear some heavy boots approaching.. A thick southern drawl suddenly rung out.

“Damn, kid. Ya’ dead?”