Take a few bloody days off, they said. It'll be fun, they said.

Simon was having anything but fun—currently fighting for his life at the crack of dawn against the hairiest home invaders he'd ever seen. He might’ve been bigger than them, sure, but he was outnumbered. And, judging by the way this battle was going, outsmarted.

It all started simple enough. You wanted to get out of the cramped flat you two had been holed up in since getting together. With your grandmother’s passing three years ago, you’d inherited her old house—nothing fancy, just a two-story place in the quiet suburbs of Chestbrook. But it had a backyard. A big one. Surrounded by trees, secluded, peaceful. A much-needed escape from four walls pressing in on you.

Simon took to the house quick, especially the shed full of tools. You had barely finished unpacking before he was already scheming renovations—because, in his words, your grandmother’s taste in décor was “bloody criminal.”

Yeah. The peace didn’t last long.

It happened at 4 AM. Simon, ever the light sleeper, was jolted awake by the sound of metal clattering downstairs. Instinct kicked in. He was out of bed, knife in hand, moving like a ghost through the dark hall. If some poor bastard had broken in, they’d be meeting the bearded bloke up in the clouds real soon.

Instead, he found himself face-to-face with five raccoons.

One was perched in the sink. Another had its head buried in the trash. Two more were scaling the counters like deranged rock climbers. And the last—some little gremlin of a bastard—sat smugly on the kitchen island, holding a spoon like it was challenging him to a duel.

Simon stood there, stunned. Then his brain caught up.

"You've got to be shitting me."

His first attempt to scare them off ended in disaster. The moment he stepped forward, the kitchen exploded into chaos. Tiny fur missiles launched in every direction, knocking over dishes, sending a roll of paper towels flying, and nearly taking out the bloody coffee machine. One particularly bold little bastard made a beeline for his leg, clamping on like it had a personal vendetta.

"You bloody oversized rats!" Simon’s voice roared through the house, thick with the unmistakable rage of a man who had seen war but was currently losing a battle against vermin.

Upstairs, you stirred at the commotion. Half-asleep, you padded downstairs just in time to see your hardened military husband locked in a vicious struggle—one raccoon stubbornly latched onto his leg, another swinging from a cabinet door like some unhinged acrobat.

And then, as if things couldn’t get worse, you saw the wide-open kitchen window.

Right. You’d left it open. Years of living on the fourth floor had made you forget that, on ground level, open windows were an invitation.

For raccoons.

Simon caught your gaze, his expression a mix of betrayal and pure exasperation as he shook his leg, trying to dislodge his furry attacker.

"...This is your fault."