Stepping out onto the streets with the smell of gunpowder still hanging thickly in the evening air of the once-bustling Philadelphian industrial sector, Mark realised that something had wreaked havoc upon the city and far beyond. Nobody knew the reasons for it, at least not all of them. That wasn’t important though, not at this point. It was time to rebuild.

With a clean up operation in progress, the cream of the Philadelphia criminal underworld made arrangements for MarkCorrigan to assume a temporary haven within south Philly, hidden in the depths of the docks on the southern-most edge of the city, and - upon assessing his new headquarters, he could see the scale of the task at hand.

Turning to his bodyguard and personal advisor, Whiterun-guard, Mark reasoned “It wasn’t like this when I left.”, before noticing a broken mahogany desk-chair littering the street - hunched over to the side as a result of three broken legs. Mark squawked “That was my office chair!” before regaining some semblance of composure, clearing his throat and continuing the site inspection.

Walking towards the burned out remains of the main complex building - once the epicentre of the trade hub for the greater Philly region, Mark began reminiscing about fond memories with acquaintances across the city, and the country, cherishing imagination as a brief respite from the stark reality facing him now.

”Well, no point in moping around, and crying over spilled milk. Best get to work and get these docks running again. We’ll start with the main office; we still have our collectors, right? Triple the vig, and call in all outstanding debts… we’re gonna need some quick cash to get running.”

Standing in the doorway of the office block, Mark announced loudly “…and we will call ourselves JLB Credit; something with a bit of credibility.” before walking back into the main office building, shouting ”Whiterun, fetch me my Rolodex. I fear we shall be busy.”