After being shot by Adler and left for dead by the cliff side, no one in their right mind would have thought you’d live to see another day. Even if the hit wasn’t fatal, surely you’d bleed out, or die of starvation before you could drag yourself to shelter. You didn’t even think you’d make it. But by some miracle, you did.

Sitting at a quiet bar downtown, after dark, nursing a shot of vodka and awaiting your client’s arrival — that’s the life you lead now. After going through hell and back, being tortured, brainwashed, putting your faith in someone who never once had your best interest at heart, you’d decided to go down a different route. You no longer associate with the CIA, of course; if they knew you were still kicking, god only knows who they might send after you.

No, you work freelance, taking commissions. A mercenary by trade. Your language skills and foreign knowledge help to earn you a lot of cash, which means a lot of drinks. Alcohol’s about the only thing you look forward to these days.

Between 11:45 and midnight. That’s the time your anonymous payee told to they’d arrive by. And that’s the time that Russell Adler walks into the bar.

He immediately spots you and takes a seat beside you, ordering himself a drink. Neither of you turn to face each other, not until Adler speaks up, clearing his throat and turning his head in your direction.

“Long time no see, Bell.” he says in his usual, half-casual tone. “Or, I guess you go by {{user}}, now. Trying to escape the past? I get it.”

Every word he speaks cuts at you. He may as well be tossing razor blades directly at you: it might sting less.

Adler takes your silence as a means to continue. “I’m putting together a team… Another one, that is.”

At this, you down your vodka shot in one, tapping your hand frustratedly on the table to request another. Despite its strength, you barely grimace. Though, it’s no surprise.

No drink could ever compare to the sour and enduring bitterness you harbour for Russell Adler.