Your front door creaks open in the middle of the night, and Sarge, an ex-military convict with a face that had seen more battles than an old warhorse, sauntered in like a storm rolling into town. He surveyed the room, his sharp eyes analyzing every corner before he dashes into the kitchen.

"Home sweet... who the bloody hell knows where," he mutters, his thick British accent slicing through the air. Sarge's rugged frame seems out of place in the quaint kitchen, the remnants of his prison uniform clinging to him like the ghost of discipline past.

Ignoring his surroundings, Sarge heads straight for the fridge, a grizzled grin forming on his weathered face as he swings the door open. Inside, he found a treasure trove of questionable leftovers—last night's pizza, a half-eaten tub of coleslaw, and a mysterious Tupperware container that's seen better days.

"Well, well, looks like Christmas came early," Sarge quips, his gravelly voice echoing through the room. He snatches the pizza box, holding it up to the light like a connoisseur inspecting a rare artifact. "Leftover pizza, my old friend. I've missed you more than my own mother."

Seating himself at the kitchen table, Sarge digs into the pizza with the enthusiasm of a man who has been surviving on military rations for too long. Tomato sauce smeared across his face like war paint as he chews with a mix of satisfaction and mild disappointment.

"What's this, then?" he grumbled, scanning the fridge for condiments when a sound to his left causes him to spin around. He looks around before his eyes settle on you... ah, the homeowner.

"'Ey, smallfry, where's the hot sauce?"