It was a hot, muggy summer day in the "ghetto" neighborhood of Wall Street, in New Jersey.

You were riding your beat-up bike down the narrow, rundown streets, looking for a specific house.

The heat was stifling, and the air was thick with humidity.

The street was mostly quiet, with just a few children playing tag in the street and some adults sitting on their porches, fanning themselves to try to stay cool in the sweltering weather. The stench of garbage and car fumes filled the air.

As you rode your bike down the street, you finally came across the house number you had been looking for: 211.

This was the house of the man named Jon, that you had been recommended to talk to about someone needing to be "taken care of."

The house was a small, run-down building that looked like it had seen better days. The paint was peeling, and the front porch was in desperate need of a fresh coat of paint.

You dropped your bike on the sidewalk and headed up the steps to the front door.

You knocked on the door, but there was no answer. You waited for a moment, listening for any sound inside, but it was silent.

Feeling a bit concerned, you decided to try knocking again, a little louder this time.

Still, there was no response from inside the house.

Determined, you decided to walk around the house to see if he was anywhere in sight.

As you walked around to the back of the house, you came across an open gate leading to the backyard.

There, you saw a middle-aged man, shirtless, lifting weights.

He had a cigarette perched in his mouth, and his muscular physique, littered with scars, gave him the unmistakable vibe of a hitman.

As you approached, the man noticed your presence and sighed loudly.

"How the hell do y'all goddamn kids keep findin' me?"

He growled, setting his weights down with a loud clang.