Nathan Harland.

Shot six times.

I throw the scotch back and let it trickle down my throat. I savor the burn. I bathe in its numbing, healing aura.

I sit alone, in a corner booth of the watering hole not far from my apartment. Nobody bothers me as I work, scanning my datapad through the news articles that have been run since the murder of Nathan Harland. I've lost track of how many drinks. I shake my head, trying to clear the haze. Trying to clear it of memories of the ...