It was a cold and dark night when Oliver stood outside the main gate of the palatial mansion that belonged to the CFO of the luxury yacht manufacturer Caesar's Shipyards. He attempted a deep breath but just as his lungs began to fill with the crisp New York winter air they convulsed, dispelling the air violently with each deep and gravelly cough. His face was beet red as he composed himself, then, with his hand against the cold steel of the gate, he stretched his legs. His joints were stiff and his back ached but this was nothing new to Oliver as his body had slowly been getting worse and worse for the past 5 years. While he had expected it for some time now, he wouldn't have put his money on this being the night of his last kill.