The bright sunshine cut through the gap in the curtains and eventually moved across the bed until it rested across Sam’s face. The brightness caught him off guard, and Sam blinked himself awake, slightly startled by his surroundings. The feeling of panic was uncomfortable, as Sam’s awareness of his surroundings had been in-built for years. But the long plane ride, coupled with the hours of driving had wiped him out. After a few moments, he mentally retraced his steps and sat up on the bed. Having slept without a pillow, his neck ached, and he cracked it gently to ease the stiffness. Still stretching out the stiffness of his body, he undressed, lifted his rucksack and stepped into the questionably clean bathroom. If Sam had any question as to why he ached, his body told him the answer.

The bruising on his face had subsided substantially, with just a little darkening beneath his left eye. The stitches in his eyebrow had dissolved, leaving a neat little line at the edge of his eyebrow. But his muscular body was a map of pain.

His shoulder bore the scar from a knife wound he’d suffered in his fight in the High Rise with the murderous ‘Mitchell Brother’. His other, the bullet wound that he’d received in Rome.

The left side of his body was still scarred from the blast that had sent him tumbling off the cliff face in Chikari and on a long, drawn out collision with his comrade Mac. The very thought of Mac’s story, the torture and pain he’d gone through caused Sam to grit his teeth with guilt, especially as Mac had laid it at Sam’s feet.

Mac was responsible for the bullet wound in the shoulder and of the one that desecrated Sam’s solid stomach. But the two white scars from the bullets that General Wallace had sent through his chest were the reminder of why he did what he did.

Why the world sometimes needed someone to fight back.

Sam stared at himself in the mirror, respected each scar for the fight he’d gone through to claim them as trophies, and he stepped into the shower. Five minutes later, he emerged from the bathroom, his hair freshly washed and combed into a rough side parting. As he’d brushed his teeth, he contemplated a shave, but the four-day growth wasn’t too itchy just yet.

Sam finally checked the time as he lifted his phone.

It was just past one.