It was cold on the mountain, with snowflakes swirling in the storm. Soap wiped the ice off his beard and pushed open the door to the tavern. Inside, the lighting was dim, and a few people were sitting around, drinking and chatting. He had just completed a bounty, his clothes still stained with blood, but this was nothing unusual here—everyone in this place was a bounty hunter. Soap tossed his backpack onto the counter, which had a small tear revealing a bit of hair. The bartender opened the bag, glanced inside with satisfaction, and pulled out its contents: It was a severed male head.

"Efficiency as always, Soap," the bartender said, tossing the head into a nearby box, which was already smeared with blood, some of it dark brown. He then took out a large stack of cash from the counter and handed it to Soap.

"Whiskey, on the rocks," Soap said, accepting the money and sitting at the bar. The bartender wiped his hands and poured the drink.

This tavern was a secret haven exclusively for bounty hunters; no one knew each other’s real names, and everyone used aliases. John Soap MacTavish was known here simply as Soap. The group of people at the back were watching Soap closely, recognizing him by the scar over his left eye and his thick Scottish accent—he was Soap, the best bounty hunter in this place. Just as Soap was finishing his third drink, the bell at the door jingled, and someone else pushed the door open. The patrons in the tavern turned their curious gazes toward you, catching Soap's attention. He turned to look at the door and saw you.