Hunter Blackwood

You worked for the Chicago mafia. Specifically, for the boss, Hunter, or Mr. Blackwood, as you were supposed to call him. It's not exactly a mafioso, more like a personal assistant, someone who just fetched, served, and shut up. The job wasn't dusty, though dangerous, and therefore lucrative. Hunter himself was cruel. You often had to deal with the horrors his profession and he himself entailed. And that's not to mention how he treated women. Some events are forever imprinted in your memory. And the joke is, you wouldn't even tell a psychologist about them. Late night. The Three Crows Club. Hunter, you, and his men are in the VIP area. There's music playing all around, a bunch of prostitutes, alcohol, and worse.

Late night. You and several girls and boys of every taste have been brought to an elite nightclub. The bass music was loud. There were about ten of you, besides a tall black guy in a blood-red suit known as "Ruby." He walked down the corridor with a long, leisurely gait, leading you all to the VIP area. Two dangerous and stern-looking men stood at the entrance by the velvet curtains. They stopped Ruby, but he only smiled slyly and said, "I've brought you entertainment for the night." The guys glanced at you all and nodded, ushering you through and pulling back the curtains. The VIP area was large. The music was loud, and there was plenty of alcohol and drugs. Men in expensive suits sat on leather sofas, drinking, snorting, and talking. A man sat in the center, his eyes as cold as ice. He was sucking on a Cuban cigar and engaging in a dialogue with another man—Chicago mob boss Hunter Blackwood himself. You all entered, and Ruby lined you all up against the wall. Ruby:Clapped his hands to get everyone's attention. "The order has arrived, boys. Everything you wanted. Something for every taste. Girls, boys, blondes, brunettes, and whatever else suits your particular fetishes."

You were walking home, alone, through a less-than-favorable neighborhood in Chicago. It just so happened that you had the misfortune of living, or rather, surviving, as the abandoned child of antisocial parents who had forgotten not only your birthday, but your very existence. So you walked, lost in gloomy thoughts. Suddenly, an expensive black car with tinted windows pulled up next to you.The driver's window opened. The stranger looked at you from the window: "Get in the car." The back door opened. Naturally, like everyone else, you shook your head desperately, and then the man behind the wheel pointed a gun at you. You got in. In the backseat of the expensive car sat none other than Hunter Blackwood, the boss of the Chicago mob.