Declan O'Gallagher saunters his way through what used to be a town’s marketplace. From the way he behaves you would think he does not have a thing to worry about, but the scorch marks on his damp and dirty clothes say otherwise. He is accompanied by a gang of rogues who routinely follow him. A group of men as callous and brash as they look, not to mention untrustworthy. All walk with a grand sense of bravado, you could tell each of them thought they could personally take on the world by themselves. So it begs the question, why do they follow Declan? Perhaps it is because he’s the only bastard mad enough to scare them. Perhaps it’s better to be on his side than against him.

Declan looks to each of his side, counting the men that now follow him. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten. Quite the group. It would have been more had it not been for the incident that occurred at Devon Manor where a few of them succumbed to the mansion fire.

“Not my fault.” Declan thinks to himself. “They should’ve been more fireproof.”

Declan laughs out loud to his inside joke, as he had been known to do.

“But some of them were killed by Khalil’s gang.” he thinks to himself.

This seems to wipe any positive emotion from his face and mind. There is nothing on God's green and yellow-misty Earth that Declan O’Gallagher hated more than Khalil.

“Fucking Khalil…” Declan mutters to himself as he grits his teeth. One of his lackey’s takes notice of this. He looks like he wants to say something to him, but does not have the stones to spit it out. He takes a few more steps of onward silence until he speaks up.

“Can I ask you a question, boss?” he queries meekly.

“Whatever it is, just fucking spit it out already.” Declan spits.

The lackey clears his throat, then takes a deep breath.

“I was just wondering,” he starts. “Why are we spending so much time on trying to kill this Khalil guy?”

Declan stops the gang in their tracks. He pulls out a pistol and presses it against the man’s neck. The man cowers in fear as he looks at Declan. The others share confused and concerned glances between each other.

“Listen carefully everyone.” grumbles Declan, through a closed-toothed deranged grin . “I hate having to repeat myself.”

The others nod, gesturing at Declan that he has the floor to speak. Declan smiles at him as he obnoxiously clears his throat in a mocking manner. He opens his mouth slightly, with every single other lackey patiently awaiting his answer.

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“Because it entertains me.” whispers Declan. He chuckles, removing the gun from the man's neck. Some of the men scratch their heads, utterly confused. They shrug and continue walking. He could have told them the real reason. About the history between him and Khalil. About what Tyrel’s brother did to his sister, the beautiful Ciara O’Gallagher. But that’s no fun. And not his style.

A scared young woman walks on her own. She covers her face with a large hoodie, aimlessly strolling the land on her own. She crosses the gang's path, immediately catching Declan’s eye. The young blonde has the wryest of smirks on his face. His eyes do not leave her as soon as she enters his line of vision. He decides to approach.

“Excuse me.” utters Declan in the most polite voice he can manage. “Have you heard of, seen or know the whereabouts of a man named Khalil Ibori?”

The woman shakes her head vigorously. Declan gives her an understanding nod.

“Okay, that’s fine…” he concedes. “Also, one more thing…”

With great speed and efficiency, Declan quickly draws his gun and shoots the woman through the face, before she even has time to realise what had just happened to her. The woman drops dead to the floor prompting a bout of uncontrollable hysterical laughter from Declan. He looks to his comrades expecting them to share his amusement. They do not.

“Oh come on, that was funny!” insists Declan. “Did you see the look on her face?”

Declan’s men refuse to laugh with him. Apparently even they have standards. Declan groans at this. In a mere matter of seconds, however, his mind has already shifted towards something else. His eyes and mouth both widen as he raises his index finger to the air like something immediately sprung to his mind. A cartoon light bulb above his head would not look out of place at this moment.

“Scratch the original Khalil plan boys, I have an idea.” proposes Declan. The gang stops their aimless walking to listen to what Declan has to say.

“How do you feel about this Olivier Dubois character?” Declan asks. His men look at him in intrigue, awaiting elaboration…

Meanwhile, in another part of the land, Dubois sits in the back of his signature van. He is being escorted over a bridge by his bodyguards as he stares out of the window in deep contemplation. Sat next to him is his grandfather, Gabriel Dubois. He purses his old and withered lips, both stained a deep blue - the same shade of blue as the cure he had previously helped his grandson demonstrate to the people of the land. He licks his lips, unsatisfied and unhappy.

“Olivier, I must say, I do not like this idea of yours” he complains.

Dubois flashes a condescending smirk in his grandfather's direction.

“Your resistance has been noted.” he responds flippantly.

He turns away from him and continues to look out of the window. Gabriel glares at him. His glare seems to cultivate enough energy to get his grandson to pay attention to him once more.

“Letting the people know of the cure's existence this early on was not wise,” Gabriel chastises. “You already have enough money. This competition will only succeed in spilling more blood across the land.”

“So?” scoffs Dubois. “Let the animals play in their filth.”

Gabriel looks at Dubois in disgust. Dubois revells in this reaction, a venomous smirk crawling onto his face.

“This will be of great benefit to us, grandfather.” he adds. “You’ll see.”