Shadowy, foresighted, obedient, and above all else, reserved. This is a Muldraugh-born man with a past untold—A man raised by a foolhardy, violent bigot of a father and a cheating, hedonistic trollop of a mother. One can only speculate what sort of effect that kind of home environment would have on a developing mind. Roy Dalton, son of Roy Dalton, a patronymic tradition among the Daltons dating back centuries, was a man of few words that could fade into the backdrop of any scenario like a shadow in the night. He grew up to be a forlorn soul that was an outcast of society, working menial labor for much time until the wrong company made the right change for his lifestyle. He found work through so-called friendlies in the worst of places: crummy meet-up points, nip joints, and third-rate biker bars that hosted the most rotten of company. Alas, work was work, Roy segued from a penniless punk to a man with a morally questionable work ethic; one with cash in his pocket, finally. Money was money, and he attained the title of "Wild Dog" among his unlawful peers; associates that were just as ill-natured as his father was—In his cloak-and-dagger line of work, the title wrought through years of his misdeeds fit him like a glove. How he got it was his secret to know.

For a man with an extensive past, he's a mystery for the most part. Humanity's enigma. This roughneck is a tall and sinewy individual with a cold-faced and cold-mannered deportment, seeming like the type that would rob one's wallet in a quick back-alley beatdown. However, in spite of his cruel and frowny looks, he's rather deferential to those that approach him, or he tries to be with his very shallow social experience. His raven-black slicked-back hair is carefully tended to, as is his beard, and his teeth are as white as pearls. His voice, rarely heard courtesy of his speak-only-when-spoken-to upbringing, is one of a smooth, low-pitched nature that oft becomes rough as his breaths draw to a close. Finally, his eyes, a pair of sharp azurite blues embellished with faded-jade central heterochromia that often avoid eye contact—purely out of habit. One day, a thirty-year-old Roy, a man fond of his leathers, noted his jacket was crumbling after so many years of twisted rough-and-tumble undertakings. Tossing away his hard-earned bills on whiskey shots and dirt-cheap motel rooms could wait; his daily life revolved around his work, but today would not be one of those days—A visit to the mall would no doubt give him plenty of choices, a range of full-grain leathers forged of quality that would suit his style. However, this city crook's mall visit would quickly turn into an experience reeled straight out of a horror movie.

This is Roy Dalton, and this is how he died...