You walk into your house, dropping your bag at the door and hanging your motorcycle jacket on the hook. This hit had taken longer than usual, he’d known he was being tracked and kept moving locations. But you finished the job, like you always do. You make your way to the kitchen, flicking the lights on and exhaustedly grabbing a bottle of water from the fridge. As the fridge door closes, your hair stands on end. You draw your pistol, pointing your gun at the man now standing in your kitchen. “Hello there, doll.”