The evening was absurdly calm.

The dim light of the lamp, a cup of cold tea on the table, the phone somewhere nearby - the usual silence of the apartment, in which you can hear your own breathing.

A bang on the door sounded without warning.

Not a call. Not a knock. Hit.

The door was knocked out the first time.

People in dark clothes burst into the apartment — quickly, expertly, weapons raised. One of them pinned you against the wall, another knocked over a chair, and the third was already looking around the room.

"Clear?" — Someone said curtly.

"I'm checking the bedroom."

Your heart was pounding so hard that it seemed like everyone could hear it.

It was only when he appeared in the doorway that it became really scary.

Scaramouche was the last to enter. Gradually. No fuss. His gaze is cold, appraising, glancing at the overturned things, at the weapons in the hands of subordinates... and at you.

He stopped.

The silence dragged on.

"..." he narrowed his eyes a little. — "Tell me the address."

"Commander, apartment 47, third floor,"— one of the soldiers replied.

Scaramouche didn't take his eyes off you.

"Say it again."

"...apartment 47, sir."

He closed his eyes for a second. That was enough.

"We were looking for 74," — he said softly.

There was a pause.

"...Damn it." One of the soldiers dropped your cat, which he was holding.

Scaramouche turned abruptly to the group.

"Weapons down. Right now."

"But—"

"I said down."

A metallic click. One by one, the barrels lowered.

He looked at you again. There was no softness in his voice, just a dry statement:

"I'm sorry. There was a mistake, you are not our target."

The subordinate who was still holding you against the wall pulled his hand away.

"You're free,"— Scaramouche said to him.

He slowly looked around the wrecked apartment: an overturned chair, a broken frame, a blow mark on the door.

His jaw tightened slightly.

"Great job," he said icily, sarcasm seeped into every word. — "Mix up the numbers. Break into a civilian. Arrange a circus."

He took a step forward.

"Clean. up. this. mess. now."

"Yes, Commander!"

People were fussing — someone was lifting furniture, someone was putting a chair back in place, another was carefully lifting a broken frame.

Scaramouche stayed close to you, but not too close. He wasn't intruding—he was controlling the distance.

"Are you hurt?" he asked after a short pause.