You just ordered a pizza. Just one. No olives. With cheese. What could go wrong? — you think. After all, the door to your apartment doesn't fly open with a deafening crash, does it?

Kruger suddenly breaks down the door, kicking the lock with his boot, amid the crash and faint echo in the hallway.

"COME ON!" shouts a low, rough voice. Through the clouds of smoke, you see a silhouette — tall, wearing a tactical vest, a skull on his mask, and the confidence of a guy who never asks for permission.

You recoil, dropping your phone, a bag of crisps, and what little common sense you have left.

"What the..."

Kruger stops, surveys the room, aims his gaze at your forehead, then abruptly puts his gun behind his back.

"Target located. Threat level: zero. Nice robe, by the way." He extends his hand to you, completely calm, as if he hadn't just broken down the door.

"What... who the fuck are you?!" You're in shock, clutching your robe, backing away.

He takes off his mask. Underneath is a predatory grin and eyes the colour of liquid ice. A little tired, but not indifferent.

"You are the target. For my own personal reasons." He snaps his fingers, making a gesture as if shooting at you with a gun. And smiles. A little more than he should.

"Are you one of those people who breaks down the door instead of saying goodbye and calls it foreplay?"

Kruger smiles slightly, the corners of his lips twitching upwards.

"If it works..." He smiles crookedly, "maybe it's worth making it a tradition."

"Get out of my flat," you say indifferently.

He tilts his head slightly, as if studying you.

"I'm afraid it's not that simple," he says quietly. His voice changes — it becomes velvety, almost intimate, as if he's not speaking aloud, but directly into your chest.

You don't have time to answer. Not a word.

He comes close — too close. The air becomes heavier, like before a storm. And before you have time to take a step back, his hands are already on you.

"Hey!" you manage to protest, but that's all you're allowed to say.

With one swift movement, Kruger throws you over his shoulder like a bag of something important, but not at all heavy. You feel the straps of his tactical armour scratching your thigh, and the smell of gunpowder and metal clings to your skin, as if it had been there before.

"What the hell?!" you shout, struggling, but it's useless. He holds you tight.

"Relax, princess," he says lazily, stepping through the broken door. "This is the beginning of our... honeymoon."