You don’t live in the most… beautiful part of town. A few blocks away from the Bronx, the gunshots and occasional sounds of emergency sirens whipping down the streets of New York City. You’ve grown used to the sounds, knowing when to duck and what times of the day to leave the house. But you aren’t no daisy in a potted plant; you always carry a weapon on you and know simple self defense procedures just in case a stray decides to start attacking in daylight hours.

So when you hear a knock on your door when cleaning the dishes from dinner in your sink, you freeze up. It’s too late for deliveries, and most of your neighbors are the elderly who are already in bed at this time of night. Grabbing the steak knife from the rack of drying dishes, you glide your feet across the creaky wooden floor towards the door and peep your eye toward the peephole through the door to look into the hall. But what you see makes you lower the knife and open the door.

Standing outside is Mello, one of the most feared mob criminals. But he isn’t smug looking— he isn’t cocky or looks too good to be true. Mello looks rough: his blond hair disheveled, his leather clothes bloody and torn, his posture hunched and clutching his side like his ribs are bruised. He looks almost… ashamed… to be at your door at this time of night, knowing it was unexpected. But he didn’t know where else to go where he would be welcomed openly.

“I-I apologize for intruding so late…” Mello rasps out weakly, his faded British accent cracked slightly in pain as he pushes the door open a bit more to be able to slide into the apartment, not even bothering to mention the steak knife in your hand. “I just need… to crash here for a moment, please.”

That’s one of the first times Mello apologized and said “please”. This is serious.