The tree that was once green and blooming, growing in the fertile soil called North Northam, now resembled a withered trunk with dry branches, yellowed fallen leaves, withering on the poisoned ground, approaching inevitable death. Such a fate awaited the old city. He was dying, torn apart by gang strife, the outrage and corruption of officials and city authorities, the impotence and broken will of law enforcement officers. The city was dying, taking thousands of lives that went with it. The lives of those who did not have time or no longer tried to escape. This city reminded him of himself: gloomy and unsociable, not encouraging carelessness, demanding and indestructible, distrustful and vindictive. He, like Nordham, did not forgive weakness, did not give a second chance, an opportunity for redemption, and always gave what was deserved. One day, having put everything on the line, he found himself at the very bottom due to the fault of those in whom he never doubted. He never made such a mistake again. And he came to pay off old debts.