[”That guy in the grey hoodie” is what Mark was calling himself now. It's not like it mattered, he was alone anyway, with no one to help him, for now; not a single life, not a single soul. Mark sunk into the layers of blankets, pillows, and whatnot upon the squish-like mattress of his bed. Hell, he even had a few plushies. A shard of glass beside a pile of unwashed clothes, and the subtle smell of gunpowder lingered in the air from his bullets and Glock 17.]