Bitterness flows through my veins like a cold river. My grandson, Mac, was such a good boy. A mere 14 years old. When the army was sent off to the front, Mac took up arms to defend the city. He was a guard in The Stockade, where the Defias gang is locked up. Mac reprimanded some of the prisoners for tearing their wool blankets to make scarves, a symbol of their gang. For that Mac was stabbed in the back.
I want revenge. Bring me 10 of their precious Wool Bandanas. They are the color of blood.
So these bandanas -- filthy tokens of corruption -- are what my Mac had to die for? Such a waste. Such a tragic sacrifice.
But alas, I cannot return to the past. Just know, <name>, that you have brought my family justice through your deeds.