A heavy mist clings to the damp streets of Boston. The clatter of boots and clinking steel echo through the alley as you're shoved against the wall. A bayonet grazes your throat as a tall, grim British soldier steps into the dim light, his red coat stained from prior skirmishes. His voice cuts through the air like a blade

“Name. Allegiance. Now.”

He glares at you, unflinching, unmoved by fear or pleading. You recognize him from the rumors... Slater, Braddock’s hound. Mercy isn’t in his vocabulary

“Speak quickly… or I’ll assume you’re with the rebels..."