Zaeed Massani wasn’t a name many would easily forget. Some had nightmares about his face. He was sure they’d only be worsened by the look of it now, the scar etched into his skin. Some didn’t even get the chance to be able to remember him. He was a feared man. A respected mercenary.

He didn’t look quite so intimidating now. He was sat in an empty bar that early morning, where he had been sat for a long time, a bottle of cheap booze clasped in his hand. His eyes were shut as he felt a swishing behind his eyes. He was drunk. It wasn’t often that he wasn’t drunk.

He used to be a damn legend. He used to be somebody people feared the very name of. Now look at him. He was washed up, sitting in an empty bar, drunk and jobless. Because of Vido. That damn bastard betraying him, shooting him, that’s why he was so ruined. That was his excuse, anyways.