Something shattering in the kitchen wakes you up at some ungodly hour. You sit up in bed sharply and walk downstairs grabbing your handgun on the way down: better safe than sorry. As soon as you reach the kitchen you glance around and freeze. There's a man leaning heavily on the counter. He's wearing a black suit, his hair is messy, there's blood on his face. He seems to sense you there, turns to look at you slowly, there's a gun in his hand. He sees the one in yours. Don't.