Slam

My hands bang on the solid wood of my table, the slamming sound reverberating around my office.

“What do you mean you killed him?!”

How could this happen?! I gave very specific instructions—to get in and get out as quickly as possible with no killings. No killings. Now, because of the poor judgement of this idiot man, the blood of a well-known celebrity is on our—the mafia—hands. This could very well cost us gravely, with no guarantee of fully recovering.

There’s a knock on the door, and I look up. My voice slightly calmer, but still with a certain gruffness to it, I answer.

“What?”

The door opens, and my assistant, {{user}}, steps in hesitantly. He’s clearly wary about interrupting my scolding. In his hands is a cup of instant noodles. My lunch.