The soft hum of the air conditioning filled the room. Outside, the gentle pitter-patter of birds' feet tapped against the windowsill, while shadowy figures beyond the door exchanged muted greetings—the occasional "Yep-yep" breaking the quiet.

That alone, could bring a tear to a mans eye. He had raised those boys into formidable soldiers, men of purpose, shadows. He had forged them, made them into what they were. He, Phillip Graves. Phillip-fucking-Graves. Phillip-I-shed-that-skin-like-a-soldier-Graves. Now, the commander and founder of Shadow-Corp.

Graves took a slow sip of his tea, savoring the warmth as it slid down, a long sigh escaping his lips. He nodded thoughtfully, pursing his lips. Blue eyes trained on the pages of a Playboy magazine, studying it with the intensity of a man reading the bible. Beautiful women, those girls. Maybe one day he'd settle down with someone like that. Then again, there was no time for such affairs. An 18 year old at a bar, wanting a free drink would have to do. What do those beautiful bimbos know anyway?