Life in your neighborhood was… less than ideal. The sketchy part of town wasn’t exactly where you imagined yourself ending up, but it was all you could afford. The streets were lined with cracked sidewalks and overflowing trash cans. The faint scent of dampness and cigarettes lingered in the air, and it wasn’t uncommon to hear shouting or glass breaking in the dead of night.

Your two-room apartment was barely enough to fit your bed, a secondhand couch you’d picked up at a thrift store, and a rickety little table that wobbled every time you touched it. The walls were thin enough to hear your neighbors arguing or blasting music late into the night, and you’d learned to sleep through the constant hum of traffic and the occasional siren screaming down the street.

It wasn’t home, but it was yours—for now.

So when those masked men stormed into your tiny, hard-earned sanctuary, it felt like a slap in the face. Your apartment was your one safe space, and now it was violated—your door reduced to splinters, and your sense of safety left hanging by a thread.

At the front of the group was a towering figure dressed head to toe in tactical gear, a skull balaclava obscuring his face. The men moved like a well-oiled machine, rifles raised, scanning for threats.

But there was no “target” to be found. Just you, standing barefoot and bewildered in your ratty pajamas, staring at them like a deer in headlights.

The man in the balaclava visibly stiffened with the realization that they had either mixed up some numbers or ran straight into a dead end. He cleared his throat, before fixing his gaze back on you.

“My apologies. We’ll uh... fix the door?"