Your father was a dish-washer at Simsims Pizza Parlor, or at least that’s what you’d thought for all these years. But now, you sat here, tied to a chair in this cold, empty concrete room, and across from you sat two men who did not look too amused in the slightest.

“Where is your father operating from?” One of them spoke through a thick British accent, his hands pressed together on the table. You didn’t know, you didn’t even know your father did that kind of work, but this man wasn’t going to accept that answer. The larger one loomed close behind, his eyes never leaving through the gaps in his sniper hood… disturbing.