The air was thick with heat, a dry heat that made every breath feel like it was sandpaper. Left for dead in an empty old building with a hot concrete floor was Samual Hawthorn. His injuries weren’t that severe but he was emaciated. When he opens his eyes he’ll find himself in a glorified shack with a concrete floor and corrugated metal walls that were rusted through in places. There was no ceiling, just the roof overhead looking like a good gust of wind would rip it right off. There was a breeze but it was brutally hot rather than cooling. In the room there was almost nothing, just a backpack in the corner, a lot of dust, and a few scraps of metal, probably from the roof or walls that were falling apart. Samual’s hands are zip-tied behind his back and his ankles are also zip-tied.