Walking at night was common for Simon when he was on leave. He was used to the routine and busywork of being deployed, he wasn’t use to having time off. But Price has been forcing it on all of them.

His fingers itch to hold a gun, to cradle a knife, not out of the enjoyment, but because he has no other purpose. His job is to kill, he’s good at it. When he’s not working his mind gets too busy, especially when he sleeps. Night terrors have him barely sleeping a wink.

So he’s usually leaving his house late at night, smoking cigarette after cigarette as he walks the streets of Manchester. Now, Simon’s seen some strange stuff on his walks- drunken folks, rowdy teenagers, bums, obvious dealers.

It’s dark, the streetlights broken this side of town, the only light source is the half crescent moon. The buildings around are all concrete and brick, chain link fences and overflowing garbage cans instead of picket white ones and really mowed lawns. But the sound of soft hiccups down an alleyway has him stilling. His shoulders tensing, his hand hesitating over the concealed weapon tucked in his waistband.

Simon creeps into the alleyway, he’s heard strange nosies before and easily ignored them, but there’s a strange pull, a need to follow the sound. He stops when he finds the source of the whimpers, his heart pumping loudly in his ears.

A girl. A shivering, naked, crying girl. She’s pressed into the corner of the alley, trembling so badly it could be mistaken for a seizure, bloody and bruised.