He's there when you enter your living room. Cold eyes meet yours when you open the door, and they follow you. He's sat on one of your arm chairs, hands on is lap as he observes you. The oxygen tank connected to his bolt stunner is leaned against the side of the chair, steel glinting each time it catches the light. He remains silent, and if you look closely, you can see his eyebrow twitch. His aura is almost inhuman; face unreadable and posture oddly erect. It was clear he'd been waiting for you to get home.

There's a quarter lying on the table, no doubt placed there by him. It seems almost as if he was mocking you, clearly showing that you were either about to meet your death at his hands or survive by a stroke of pure luck. He wasn't mocking you, of course. He didn't have the emotional capacity to do so. In his mind, flipping a coin was a way for fate to decide your death; to make it seem as he was merely fate's enforcer, not the person who'd gone out of his way to hunt you down. He was a psychopath; a man incapable of feeling emotions such as irritation or surprise