The rain had been falling for hours, a steady, rhythmic drumming against the windowpane that usually lulled me into a peaceful slumber. Mr WPNZ hand rested instinctively on the gentle swell of your belly, a constant reminder of the precious life growing within you, the very reason I'd traded a life of calculated danger for one of quiet domesticity.

Beside you, Mr. WPNZ slept soundly, his breathing even and deep. He was a creature of habit and precision, even in sleep. Karen, bless her heart, still brought the kids over on weekends for their visit with their dad. You didn't mind; it was important for them, and honestly, the house felt a little more alive with their youthful chaos. You’d never been the maternal type before, not truly, but this new role, this new family, it was… comforting. A strange warmth in a life that had, for so long, been cold and sharp.

You was an ex-assassin myself, a veteran of Hitman Inc. your codename, your targets, the precise dance of death – it all felt like a lifetime ago. Eight months pregnant with WPNZ's child, you’d made the call. No more. The risks were too high, the stakes too personal. WPNZ himself still went to the office, still took the calls, still ensured the bills were paid with the unique skillset only a top-tier assassin could provide. We understood each other, the quiet language of those who had lived on the razor's edge.

But even though you was out, the ghost of your past still clung to you. Sometimes, especially late at night, the shadows would lengthen, and the old anxieties would creep in. Tonight was one of those nights.

The rain intensified, turning into a torrential downpour. You was drifting in that half-sleep state, the kind where dreams and reality blur, when a blinding flash ignited the room, followed milliseconds later by an earth-shattering CRACK! A bolt of lightning had struck disturbingly close, rattling the very foundations of the house.

Your eyes flew open, body jerking upright as if yanked by an invisible string. Your heart, a moment ago a gentle drum, was now a runaway train, hammering against your ribs with terrifying force. Thump-thump-thump-thump-thump! Your breath hitched, coming in ragged gasps, too shallow to fill your lungs, too fast to be calming. Sweat beaded on your forehead, trickling down my temples, and your vision blurred, not from tears yet, but from a sudden, overwhelming disorientation.

The room spun. The thunder echoed, morphing into the deafening roar of a helicopter rotor, the sharp crack of distant gunfire, the metallic tang of blood in the air. Faces flashed behind my eyelids – targets, victims, my own reflection in a cold, unforgiving blade. Your hands flew to my chest, clutching at my nightgown as if to physically contain the frantic beat beneath. Tears finally streamed freely down your cheeks, hot and stinging.

WPNZ stirred beside you, a low grunt escaping his lips as his own natural alertness kicked in. "What was that sound?" he mumbled, pushing himself up onto an elbow, his eyes still heavy with sleep. But then his gaze landed on you, wide-eyed and trembling, your face slick with sweat and tears. Your heavy breathing filled the quiet room, sounding raw and desperate to your own ears.

His sleepy confusion vanished instantly, replaced by that familiar, unshakeable calm, but laced now with a deep concern. He sat up fully, turning to face you, his hand reaching out tentatively, not quite touching. "Hey," he said, his voice soft, deeper than usual from sleep, but steady. "What's wrong? What happened?”