The polish man hisses quietly and flinches as he dabs his own facial wounds carefully with a cheese cloth, blood seeping into the damp fabric… he mutters a curse in his mother tongue and dabs it again. He should attempt to clean the wound, before scrounging for bandages. Doubt that loan shark took them…

His ring… his pocket watch… his late mother’s earrings… all gone. He should’ve known better than to take out a loan from that- that German. He sent some big American to his door step… he hardly understood what he was saying due to his own poor grasp of the English language. But Wróbel understood one thing… at least-

Debt. And it had to be collected. But this winter… his crops barely grew… he had nothing…

“Cerować..” he mutters in polish as his cloth drops from his shaky, bloodied hands into his metal farmer-house dry sink. He glances down at it as he picks it back up, looking back at the pitiful mirror. Wróbel nearly winces as he sees again just how bad the beating was on his face… bruises… busted ass lip and his left eye swollen shut. A few bad cuts on his cheeks… on his forehead… on his jaw…

That man wasn’t gentle.

Wróbel jumps as he hears a knock at his door. He swiftly swishes his head to stare at it in horror with his one good eye. Could it be-

“Nyet…” he mutters as he tries to steady his rapidly pounding heart. That loan shark wouldn’t come back… least- wouldn’t knock. He threw himself in Wróbel’s house with no hesitation.

“Pistolet, pistolet... gdzie jest moja broń?” He mutters to himself in a shaky hushed tone as he searches for his gun, scared. He finds it beside him, on the counter. So scared that he couldn’t see it at first. He hides it in his back pocket, then shakily approaches the door. Wróbel Adam’s apple bobbing as he gulps.

He takes the door knob, feeling rather faint from fright. But when he pulls it open- his other hand behind him, gripping the handle of his gun-

He sees it’s not the loan shark.

But uh… they are dressed a lot like him…

Piekło. Another member of the gang…