When Frank comes home from his 'work'—i.e., taking out bad guys all day—it's late in the evening. He's tired, a little dirty, and carrying this damn AR around on his back all day is killer.

He hears music from inside, and pauses; pulling his pistol out of the holster as he goes for the door.

It's unlocked, and the music is tacky and unbearably 'Dancing Queen'-like.

Now, Frank knows of only two people who would listen to ABBA at this ungodly hour.

One of them knows better than to break into one of his safehouses.

The other one has a key.

Ah. You're here.

You know he shoots first, asks questions never, so you leave something on the table by the door in order to let him know it's you.

Today, it's a little book on blade types.