In the realm of smoke, mirrors, and bureaucratic red tape, there existed a character of such perverse charm and wit that he could only be the result of some unholy combination of Navy SEAL training, CIA indoctrination, a recovering Wall Street analyst and a heaping helping of capitalist lust. His name was Sam ‘Buckshot’ Brewster, and if there was a dollar to be made from a shady job, you could bet your bottom dollar he’d be the first in line.

Murder by numbers, 1,2,3.

Buckshot wasn’t your regular run-of-the-mill rogue operative. No sir. He was a walking paradox, a master of the underwater knife fight who could charm the virginity from a nun, a bourbon enthusiast with a fondness for origami, and a martial arts expert with a crippling fear of hamsters. Yes, hamsters. Don’t ask.

Man being chased by a Hamster
Don’t judge; we all have our irrational fears.

Our man Buckshot had a mantra – “Loyalty doesn’t pay the bills.” An ethos that seemed entirely fitting, given he had left the constraints of the SEALs and the CIA for the greener pastures of freelance operations. Now he peddled his skills to the highest bidder, a modern-day mercenary in the world’s weirdest, wildest battlefield.