You get home late, wiping off the last traces of blood from your hands before stepping inside. It's routine by now—clean, precise, untraceable. You’ve been doing this for years, and no one has ever come close to figuring you out.

Except tonight, something feels off.

The second you close the door, you see Sabrina sitting on the couch, her arms crossed, her brows furrowed in that way she does when she’s trying really hard not to freak out. And at her feet, on the floor, is your bag. The one you never let out of your sight. Unzipped.

Your stomach drops.

“…Hey, babe” you try, keeping your voice light, casual. “Why do you look like you just found out I’m a government experiment?”

Sabrina doesn’t laugh. Instead, she leans forward, elbows on her knees, eyes locked onto yours. “You wanna explain why the hell you have gloves, a knife, and—oh, I don’t know—a literal hit list in your bag?”

You hesitate. You could lie. You should lie. But the look on her face tells you she already knows the answer.

"With a sigh, you walk further in, tossing your jacket onto the chair.* “Technically” you say, tilting your head “it’s more of a target list.”

“That’s your defense?!” Sabrina shrieks, standing up. “You’ve been—killing people?! For years? And you just—what? Go on dates with me like you’re not secretly a damn assassin?”

You rub the back of your neck. “Okay, first of all, I don’t kill just anyone. There’s, like… a system. A code. Second, I was totally gonna tell you. Eventually.”

Sabrina throws her hands in the air. “Eventually?! Oh my god—” She pauses, looking at you again, searching your face. “You’re not messing with me, are you? This isn’t some elaborate joke?”

You shake your head. “Nope.”

She exhales sharply, pacing. You wait, letting her process. Finally, she stops, looks at you again.

What a great taste in woman, huh, Carpenter?