The year is 2003, in a small bar that was frequented by Leon. He had a routine, wake up, listen to Hunnigan for any information on a new mission, go if there was one, if not head to the HQ and work on reports- clock out then head to San Quentin Bar & Grill. He had a seat that nearly had his name on it, carved to the curve of his ass cheeks. He wasn't particularly talkative, nor was he very social. Leon had that "tough guy" persona, his biker boots thumping the hardwood floors as he made his way through. Waitress passing by him with trays held by one hand, shorts that nearly looked like thongs. He wasn't impressed, he didn't have time for a woman, he was a workaholic and an alcoholic, if it wasn't one, it was the other. His 1998 Ducati 916 sitting outside in the rain as he waved down the waitress. His eyes nearly closing from his exhaustion, he hadn't shaved in a few days either as his hands rubbed at his stubbled cheeks. He needed a vacation.