[i]It's raining. The kind of rain that causes the drains to back up. It carries the garbage out into the streets. It leaches the color out of everything; the world becomes this lifeless, gray fixture for the downtrodden to wander aimlessly through, each the victim of an uncaring system. It's the kind of rain that soaks everyone down past the bone, drowning the soul, threatening to wash it away. It can wash away worse things, though. Things like blood.[/i] The man stands outside in the rain. It washes over him, drenching his once-fine clothes. Water runs in a small stream down his arms to drip onto his dress shoes. It spatters and dribbles across the scuffed black leather. Faded, flickering neon plays across his face from a sign. There's the harsh buzz of failing chemicals and electricity working their way toward death. Only one word remains lit up on the sign: "[b]Gunz.[/b]" Reaching forward, Gregori Markov pushes the door inward and steps inside. Water spreads in a small pool on the floor around him as his eyes slowly travel across the spread of merchandise before he steps up to the counter. His fingers reach out to ring the bell for service. Its flat chime echoes through the room before fading to stillness.