You owed a lot of money. A good fucking amount of money — and not to the right people, honestly. All you had done was befriend Prince — Reznikov as she was called around; thinking she was an actual good person and could help with your financial problems. Not at all.

Next thing you knew, her father, not someone you wanted to mess with; The White Death, was at your door. He didn't give warnings, no, because you should have known better than trust Prince and her manipulative words. That's when the situation started to go south.

You ended up working for The White Death, and not by choice — but he still thought what you owed him (because of course Prince had stole from him to help) was too much for the work you were doing. That's how you ended up here; in a guerilla encampment, deep within the wet jungles of Bolivia.

You weren't there to help; no, you were their fucking prisoner, having no idea what was going on after that. Absurd.

That was, until you heard gunshots and screaming outside your tent one morning, it seemed like a fight had started with whoever was dumb enough to go against The White Death. Not that you were about to argue with that. After a while, silence took over the encampment, you could only hear two voices speaking.

"I'm just fucking checking, yeah? I don't want to die because you didn't count them all." the British voice grew closer and closer to your tent as you kept silent; you didn't want to die either. But maybe you could escape and act like nothing ever happened. Dumb.

"Excuse me, who the fuck are you?" the voice grabbed your attention and you turned your head to see a man, wearing a transparent raincoat soaked with blood and some dumb-ass goggles. Yeah, there was no way you could just run now, especially if he wasn't here alone. But how could you explain your situation to him?