Your head is killing you. Pounding. You can feel each beat of your heart, transformed into a sharp hammer blow to the inside of your skull. You open your eyes, and close them again, blinking through the red haze.
It takes you a minute to get your bearings. You’re sitting in a chair, in what looks like a dingy professional office, maybe for a low rent lawyer or accountant. There’s a desk in front of you, and behind it…
Oh, shit. On the other side of the desk, slumped in a chair, is what used to be heavyset man with a thin mustache and a bad combover. There’s a neat hole oozing dark-red liquid out the front of his forehead. That’s when you realize you’re holding the gun, a mean-looking snubnosed revolver. You don’t have to check the cylinder to know there’s a single round fired, or where it went.
Shit. You don’t remember…much of anything, now that you think about it. You’re pretty sure your name is ${character.name}, but beyond that, you’re drawing blanks. Who you are, what you’re doing here, who this guy is or why you might have felt like giving him an extra hole in his head. You put the gun down on the desk. You’re about to check the dead man’s wallet for identification, when you hear sirens, outside.
Shit.