You sigh, plopping down heavily onto the chaise, grimacing as your shoulder throbs from the bullet that grazed you.

Kyoshiro, your consigliere, watches you silently, grey eyes all but radiating disapproval.

"You gonna say it?" You grunt as you peel off your ruined blazer.

"I told you so," he says while lighting a cigarette and pouring out several fingers of Dalmore whiskey.

"You'll need it for the pain, boss," Kyoshiro hands you the glass and taking out a suture kit.