In Liberty City, few people take notice of things. When a well dressed lawyer was mugged on the corner of Seymour and Parr, nobody noticed. When the National Bank of Liberty was robbed and two people were killed, nobody noticed. When a teenage boy tosses a baseball in the street with his friend, nobody notices.

So when a handsome young man in Marine Corp dress blues crossed Pancho Street and entered his apartment building at 3:15 PM on January 21, 2009, absolutely nobody noticed.

They would notice soon though.

Jonathan Luke, Johnny to his friends, entered his apartment, the strong smell of Liberty City musk overpowering his senses. Dizzy, he sat down on his couch, his dress blues crumpling under his trimmed frame.

The television went on, a commercial for Burger Shot advertising The Heart Stopper, Johnny's favorite burger.

Fast food, however, was something he had sworn off since he joined the Marines.

Then again, the Marines weren't much of a problem anymore, were they? In his mind, Johnny could still see the stone cold face of the officer as he handed him his discharge papers.

Rage, anger, hatred, everything boiled up in his heart like a pot of stew. He hated them for what they had done. He hated them all.

After he was kicked out, Johnny had taken his pay and tried to find home. His parents were dead, his other family too far away. All he had left was his brother in Liberty City. They both had remembered playing in the streets back when the streets were clean and they were years away from being "The Worst Place in America".

They grew up, and they still stayed around, even with people like Salvatore Leone and The McRearys were in power and the criminal Underworld seemed to thrive.

His brother, Bobby, and Johnny both went to college, and came out pretty well. Bobby went into architecture, Johnny into law.

Then on that historic day on September 11, 2001, the World Trade Center fell in Lower Manhattan. In a surge of patriotism, Johnny leaped at the chance to serve his country, joining the Marine Corps to prove it, leaving Bobby behind in the cruel, unforgiving world of Liberty City.

The doorbell rang, snapping Johnny out of his trance. He stood up, plodding over to the door, tossing his hat and bayonet over the couch. He was hallway through unbuttoning his shirt when he turned the brass knob.

"Package for a Mr. Jonathon Luke, sir." The Dominican post man smiled radiantly, his wide grin diminished by a gathering crowd of discolored, packed-together teeth.

"That's me," Johnny replied, his shirt unbuttoned completely, removed to reveal a white t-shirt underneath. The man shoved a clipboard in the Marine's hand, which he gratefully signed. Afterwards, the courier produced a small brown box from his hip bag, handing it to the exhausted veteran.

"Thank you." Johnny slipped the man a 5- dollar bill, which he took warily, the many years of poverty back home having made him very careful with his money.

"Thank you, sir. I appreciate it."

And with that, he slipped out the door.

Johnny put his package on the table with the mail his landlord had collected over time, not even glancing at the contents.

He scanned the room. In it was a shoddy counter, a soggy couch, a shabby collection of junk that was the peak of what The Worst Place in America offered.

There were plenty of "Sh" words he could think of to describe this place.

He shuffled into the bathroom (another "sh" word) and decided to take his first shower in a week. The cold, uncared for pipes launched a blast of freezing water at him, reddening his skin, the spray vaguely reminding him of machine gun bullets.

He brushed his teeth; this time with an electric brush instead of the cheap, elementary school funded ones he had been given back in Iraq.

His razor was broken again, he reminded himself to get a new one the next time he stopped by the store.

He pulled the towel off and dropped it in the basket labeled 'Laundromat', and redressed himself in a pair of Denim jeans and a green t-shirt. He felt cool, clean, and refreshed after a long tour of duty. Only this time, he wouldn't be going back.

He sat back on his couch, neatly folding his clothes and placing them in a box, which he shoved in the back of his closet, behind his freshly pressed suit. Tomorrow he would call the firm, see if any of his old friends could get his leg back in the puddle.

His eyes flicked over to the mail cluttered on his greasy kitchen table. 1500 a month my ass, He thought. He stood up and looked at them.

He got mostly junk mail: a brochure for the Digital Conversion, a copy of the Liberty Tree dated two weeks ago, the headline reading, "Terror at Happiness Island!", some old coupons, a subscription offer from TW, and a notice of discharge he automatically trashed. He looked over at the package, an inkling of rebuttal surging through his hand. As soon as he laid eyes on that package, he knew he should have thrown it away.

But, why would he do that? It was just a harmless package.

He really should have thrown it away.

As soon as he opened the flap, a small video, like the ones used in VHS players, fell into his outstretched hand. He was lucky to already have an old VHS player in his closet. Curious, he hooked it up to his TV, removing his DVD player out of the way, along with a few movies like Terminator 2, and The Grudge. The plug slid eerily into the outlet, a smooth fit. A cold chill went down his spine.

What's wrong with you, Johnny boy? Get a hold of yourself.

He straightened up, almost snapping a salute on instinct, but instead turned on his TV set and pushed the videocassette into the silver box. He sat on the couch again, the smell of rotten food and dirt floating into his nostrils.

In horror, he stared down the image of his brother. But Bobby wasn't like he normally was. His happy-go-lucky lifestyle had changed, his entire demeanor grim. That was just a look at his eyes. Other than that haunting observation, Johnny couldn't help but notice the blood spots and bruises dotting his brother's face, or the thin, sweat stained cloth forced tightly between his lips. Neither did he notice the chair he was strapped to, nor the large knife in his leg, sticking out at a strange angle.

Johnny clenched his fists tightly, letting the image sink in before it was replaced by another man, an Asian with a thick accent. He grinned mischievously at the camera, and then he came farther into view. Johnny felt like wringing him dry.

Worse, he felt like killing him. Not just that, but he wanted to peel his skin off while he squirmed, slicing off each bit as he screamed and kicked in his struggle. He wanted him to suffer.

The already hated voice then spoke up, crackling on the screen like an aged movie actor.

"Hello, mother fucker."