It comes to you in a dream.

Cursing, hands pushing at the bloody cut in vain. Crimson seeping between your fingers. A beautiful woman, dying at your feet. You can't picture her face, but you know she's beautiful. She has to be.

Running. Slipping in a puddle, scraping your knees. Getting up again and running some more. Knife clutched in your shaky, blood-soaked hands.

And then you hear voices.

"Kenny Ackerman- folks know him as Kenny the Ripper. Hefty price, but he's worth it. Always gets the job done."

"Kenny Ackerman."

The name feels like poison on your tongue.

"I'll kill him."

When you wake up, metal is digging into your cheek and your fingers are lightly brushing the dirty floor. You're still on that damn bench, strapped in. There's blood drops littering the ground from where your cuts have dripped down from your back and rolled off your sides.

Traute comes in who knows how much later. "Ready to talk?" she asks.