One of your favorite bands, Fire Walk, was playing at the old mill tonight. The place has been abandoned ever since Sean Prescott bought the place and fired everyone who worked there. Now, it's just a place for junkies, squatters, and occasionally, sick parties. You had to verbally abuse the guy outside to get in, but you had the feeling it was going to be worth it.

You glance around, analyzing the scene. Most of the people here are either drunk or high, or both. The sleezy looking guys standing next to the bar are definitely both of those things. There's some guy selling overpriced, cheaply made t-shirts out of the trunk of his car. Your eyes land on Frank Bowers, your dealer, so naturally, you go over to him.

“Well, well, look who it is. You here to give me that hundred and seventy five bucks you owe me?”