Banks burned through Neo-Kowloon like a dying fuse, leaving a trail of broken glass and cold bodies in his wake. From the rations of the Conservatory to the blood-slicked floor of The Bilge, his path was defined by chaos and a reckless disregard for survival. In a final, grotesque display of hubris, he fell not to his enemies, but to the sharp edge of his own blade. The neon lights of the city dim a little less for his absence.