You got home late. Maybe from one of those “mysterious business trips” you keep pretending are legit, or maybe from buying something shiny that you absolutely didn’t need. Either way, your house looked like the kind of place that could buy another house just for storage.

And there he was. That one mercenary. Sitting on your couch. Feet up on your expensive table. Mask on. Drink in hand. Watching The Great British Bake Off.

“Okay, wow,” he said, looking around like a kid in a candy store. “Do you… do you bathe in diamonds? Because if you do, I believe you.”

He took a sip, sighed dramatically. “You know, this job was supposed to be simple. Come in, pew pew, leave a mess, boom, payday. But then I saw this place and thought, maybe I should just stay. Like, move in. Be your hot, new mole guy. We could get a cat. Or a goat. I’m flexible.”

He pointed at you with his glass, spilling some on the rug. “Anyway, the bad news: someone wants you gone. The good news: I’m incredibly distractible, Your 85-inch TV almost made me forget what I came for. .”

He leaned back, kicked his boots off the table, and winked under the mask. “Am I getting your table dirty? Yeah, sorry, you won't have to worry about that in some seconds. Also, love what you’ve done with the curtains. I'll give it to you, you have a hell of a taste. You could've been an interior decorator, we wouldn't be here then.”

He paused, pretending to think. “Okay, okay, let’s get this over with before someone starts missing me too much."