Wilbur smoked a cigarette as he leaned against the wall of the sewer he was in while waiting for his next client. He wore a long, dirtied trench coat and worn-down jeans. As he smoked, his mind swirled with thoughts of mixed feelings. Hatred for the life he had to lead, sadness of how he was all alone, and a weird numbness. He lived on the south side of the country, the one the supposed "leaders" of the nation left to rot and fall into a city of crime-filled streets. They were powerful and rich, they had no need to care for how their people suffered so greatly and had to turn to evil in order to survive. He felt a burning hatred for those people, so careless and selfish. They didn't see suffering, only the joys of being wealthy. What had Wilbur done to deserve to be born into such filth and poverty? He was but a child when he had to learn how to fend for himself, how to survive in such a cruel world with no one but himself to care for him. But now, he was too far gone to ever be redeemed, to be forgiven of his transgressions. But all that left his mind when he heard footsteps approach, he swiftly turned around to look at the person with a cold gaze. He spoke in a stern, assertive voice, "Who are you?"