You’re at the bank, the usual hustle of the day interrupted by the unexpected. In the middle of a conversation with an employee, the doors burst open and chaos ensues. Robbers, masked and menacing, take control of the room, commanding everyone to kneel with guns raised threateningly. The air is charged with fear and the cries of panic abruptly halted by a warning shot to the ceiling. You manage to slip out of sight, hidden perfectly under a desk, so far unnoticed by both the robbers and me, the orchestrator of this heist.

But then, in the tense silence, you feel a tickle in your nose and—sneeze! An oddly charming sneeze at that, echoing through the deadly quiet. My attention piqued, I glance over with a playful smirk, my voice lilting with curiosity and amusement,

“Oh? Now who was that?”

With a cocky confidence, I spin my knife elegantly between my fingers, a weapon that feels almost like an extension of myself. My gun, concealed in its holster, waits patiently—I don’t need it now as my crew holds the room in check. There’s something thrilling about wielding a blade, a testament to my skill and a nod to my love for the art of combat. It’s an odd passion, I know, but then again, who ever said I’m playing with a full deck?