Platinum Tower had, several months prior, been the pinnacle of architecture in the entire city. But when the terrorists blew it up and the billionaire vacated...well, the building clearly had seen better days.

     Ben could see its deconstruction from his grimy apartment room window. The charred-black structure looked like a stain on the city skyline to him, but not as much as the vigilante billionaire who had constructed the thing in the first place. Ben was disgusted by the man, despite the fact that in recent months he claimed to have turned a new leaf.

     He tossed the daily newspaper on to his creaky bed and cracked open a bottle of whisky. The headline was about another attack by the unknown assailant the media referred to as the "Silver Assassin". According to the newspaper, he'd killed off another drug cartel operation using a unique weapon seemingly of his own design. The article had read:

         "Yet another drug operation has been destroyed by the 'Silver Assassin'. Opinions are conflicted as to the nature of this hero or villain, and many are increasingly divided by the weapon of choice the vigilante seems to have...."

     His victims were turned silver.

     Nobody knew how, while some guessed that it was due to a unique gaseous element of artificial design. Nevertheless, attacks on drug cartels and gangs by the Silver Assassin had grown more intense in the past year. Many feared for their own lives, prompting several investigations by the police. Others paired him with the vigilante Desmond Pierce in their methods of operating outside of the law. As Ben drank his whisky, he remembered back to a news report he had seen a few weeks prior:

     "'How can American citizens feel safe in a world where evil people like the Silver Assassin, and vigilante billionaires like Desmond Pierce, operate outside the law? These so-called 'heroes' are nothing more than unhinged lunatics in our  society, and they must not be allowed any more freedom than they already have. We have to think on our own safety with these people running around, and also on the safety of our children. Who is to answer for the damage that they've caused?'"

     The world had been in a state of unrest since the Black Dragon threat, the reveal of Pierce's identity as a samurai-vigilante, and the increased attacks lead by the Silver Assassin. The consequence was an increase in protests and violence since the news hit the airwaves. Most of the people who protested were just afraid. The days of feeling security, or the idea that the world could be normal, were beginning to fade. When people crowded outside the White House, or made public declarations on the television, it was simply due to the fact that they didn't know what to do. They weren't just afraid for their children, they were afraid for themselves.

     Meanwhile, Ben had tried to keep out of it. Even though the world was getting a little stranger, that didn't mean he had to go lose his head like everyone else was. Instead, he just kept to his normal routine of stealing, selling, and killing. He had no real job, but that was because there was nobody that would ever hire him. Ben had been to prison so many times for heinous crimes that his record was stained nearly black.

     Ben stared over at the painting he had stolen and swallowed a mouthful of whisky. His throat burned, his vision wobbled, and a fire roared in his chest as he glared at the artwork. It represented his past, his present, and even his future. There had never been a time when he wasn't scavenging around for a decent dollar. His recent payment would have been the most in years, but instead it had been a complete sellout. Ben finished his whisky and walked over to the painting, feeling a growing sense of dread towards the work of art.

     He stared into its heart and kicked it with all of his might. A grunt of anger escaped his throat, and it unfurled into a warrior-like cry. Frustration at his life boiled over, and his foot penetrated the delicate canvas with ease. He kicked the painting again, as the frustration inside of him increased. Ben was tired of always running around doing things behind people's backs. He was angered at the fact that he didn't have any control over anything.

     Ben leaned against the wall, taking deep breaths. His arm slackened, and the empty bottle of whisky tumbled to the ground leaking its remnants onto the carpet. He stared at the cracked surface of the wall as he saw his life briefly pass before his eyes. Ben was sick and tired, because never in his life had he ever been given a fighting chance. Since the very beginning, he had been left to the streets on his own. That is, after he lost his brother Francis.

     Francis.

     The name haunted him. He would have nightmares about the night he was taken; the night he was lost. Ben blamed himself for not going back, but he knew that if he did he probably would've been killed like his brother. Anger, regret, and pain coursed through Ben's heart as he leaned against the wall. His life had been full of struggle, pain, and loneliness. The loss of his brother had made things especially hard.

     Winters had nearly left him dead, gang members had almost stripped him of everything, and the cold, cruel world had left him a hollowed shell of a human being. From an early age he had been forced to learn how to fight and to hold his ground. He was forced to join a group of people like himself and patrol the streets of New York like guards. Even though he was homeless and orphaned, the gangs he joined kind of created a weak family structure for him to be  a part of. That is, until governmental procedure placed him in a foster home and gave him a fragmented education.

     His life was hell, and that was an understatement. Ben had dozens of scars all over his body from the countless street fights he had been a part of. Every day had been a struggle; he would wake up and not quite know what the day was going to bring. Despite that, he had to find it within himself to continue to press onward. When he was in his mid-twenties he met a woman, and it changed everything.

     All he had known his entire life was anger, resentment, and violence. But when he met a woman named Diana, she had shown him a part of life that was peaceful. She showed him what life could be, and Ben embraced it. He vowed to leave the streets of violence and find some decent work in order to support himself and Diana. Years passed, the two married, and they had a daughter.

     Ben stepped away from the wall and pushed the broken painting into a corner. Out of the corner of his eye, he could barely glimpse a dust-smudged picture of his family. It was too painful to look at, though, as it only reminded him of the day that shook his world forever. It was the day everything Ben cherished had been taken from him; the day they had been taken. As a lump knotted itself in his throat, Ben grimaced and looked away, instead turning his attention to the surrounding apartment.

     He grudgingly glanced around his living space: it was dirty, un-kept, small, and it smelled like old cheese. Ben tossed his whisky in a bin and laid down on his creaky mattress, while staring up at the ceiling. If he closed his eyes, he could almost convince himself that Diana was lying right next to him. He missed Diana, and he missed his daughter.

     Ben's eyes began to droop with sleep. He had the sensation of falling into the peaceful realm where he could just lie in nothingness. Ben was on the verge of slumber when a sudden knock at the door made him sit up in his bed.

     "What?" he muttered to himself; he never got visitors.

     He slowly got out of bed, being careful not to make any noise. He snatched his hand gun from the table, and quietly made his way to the door. While walking, he glimpsed himself in the mirror.

     His muscle-ripped arms tightly gripped the gun, and his dark brown eyes seemed to have the look of a wild animal. His thick black hair seemed a little messy, and he had a growing beard on his face. Ben looked away, and he pressed his body up against the wall.

     He slid towards the door and looked into the rusty eye-hole. Outside, he couldn't see anybody through the distorted perspective. However, he could faintly glimpse the edge of a brown package on the ground. Ben opened up the door and peeked out, but there was nobody there. Quickly, he greedily pulled the package into his apartment and shut it. Before he left, he hinged a few locks to make sure that nobody could get in.

     The package was small and rectangular. It was wrapped in a brown paper and held together by a string, delicately wrapped with precision. Ben unwrapped the package, opened up the box and saw, to his utter shock, that it was full of money. There were thousands of dollars in bills, all neatly rolled up and placed together within the box. On top of all the bills there was a folded piece of white paper, and Ben picked it up to read:

Mr. Cain,

Within this box is $50,000 dollars in payment.

Your payment will be substantially increased if you meet at the following address indicated on the back of this paper.

Look for the man wearing the navy-blue fedora.

Arrive no later than 8:00 A.M.

We look forward to possibly working with you.

Come alone.

     The letter was not signed. Ben flipped the paper over and read the address: they wanted to meet at a bar close his location. He thought for a moment, the idea of possibly gaining more money was tantalizing to him. A little more and maybe he would be able to live comfortably outside of New York City.

     Instantly Ben knew that if he went, he would have to go armed. He never trusted any potential clients, especially if they sent him questionable boxes of bribe money. Ben sat down and counted the money because he wanted to make sure that his new client was telling the truth. Sure enough, the money amounted to fifty-thousand of legitimate bills.

     Ben placed all of the bills back in the box and went to go back to sleep. The next day was going to be busy.

     It also might be a dangerous one.