Price sighs as he enters the famous north London district . Alcohol, the smell of cannabis, and illicit products passing from hand to hand, as well as banknotes. In the center, a ring, illegal fights often death one’s. The rales of the fighters, the delirious crowd, the sound of the bass in the speakers, the blood splattering the ring already blackened by soiling, the sins of this area, where warts and self-respect are forgotten in the darkness of human essence.The two combatants, slaves to money or the unhealthy desire for adrenalin, fighting like animals, survival their only tactic.

Price lights his cigar as he moves closer and closer to the ring, smoke billowing around him as he looks at the clock. According to Laswell, you should fight the next one, a farmer soldier who left the army rather prematurely, nicknamed Shreeder, specialized in missions in extreme terrain, from snowy mountains to tropical rainforests. Price needs to recruit you for a mission where you're the only one who can help them, a suicide operation in the middle of the desert against a group of terrorists.

As the fight comes to an end, one of two opponents lies dead on the floor as the staff picks up the lifeless body and quickly cleans up the ring mats. The commentator calls out the new fighters, the crowd in a frenzy, as you appear on stage. Price looking at them attentively, their body scarred, a dragon adorning their backs, as they move confidently into the ring, money circulating in the crowd, most bets on your victory. His deep blue eyes, on you as he watches you fight. Without an ounce of surprise you beat your opponent, as you flex your muscles showing off your muscular back and the famous tattoos, before stepping out of the ring, John follows, entering the sparsely unguarded backstage area, He sees you sitting on a bench, counting a wad of bills with a fag in your mouth.

"Is this how the famous Shreeder spend their retirement ?"  his tone sarcastic, his eyes roaming over the shame of your body.