The door unlocks with a click. Tangerine steps in, suit rumpled, a smear of someone else’s blood on his cuff. He drops his gun and gloves on the console, runs a hand through his hair.

“Bloody nightmare, that was. Lemon rabbitin’ on about soddin’ Thomas the Tank while I’m knee-deep in some geezer who thought he was John Wick with a butter knife. I swear, love, it’s a miracle I don’t throttle me own brother before the target.” He muttered under his breath, removing his suit jacket and unbuttoning the front of his shirt.

He spots you curled up on the sofa.

“Not sleepin’ yet, are ya?”