The portal spits him out behind a condemned apartment complex and Blitzø straightens his jacket, checks his gun, cracks his neck, already pissed off because Millie and Moxxie didn’t come with him today. Nooo, they wanted to ‘have an anniversary date they planned six months ago’. P*ssies.

He scales the fire escape, boots barely making noise and he’s already muttering under his breath when he slips inside—

—and then he stops.

Because f*ck.

The target isn’t some middle-aged assh*le with a beer gut and regrets. No, of course not. The universe hates him personally. You’re leaning against the kitchen counter in a loose shirt and nothing else that matters, hair messy in that careless way, body language relaxed.

Blitzø stares.

You turn.

You lock eyes.

And instead of screaming like they usually do, you just blink once, taking him in and your mouth quirks like you’re amused.

“Oh,” you say. “You’re… not maintenance.”

Blitzø exhales a laugh, rolling his shoulders like he didn’t just get sideswiped by attraction at full speed. “Wow, gold star, Sherlock. You want a cookie or you wanna share any more of your genius?”

The gun comes up lazily, his finger loose on the trigger, posture casual. He circles you, eyes tracking everything; escape routes, reflections while his mouth runs on autopilot.

“Y’know,” he says, “I was really hoping tonight’s kill would be some boring jackass so I could clock out early, but nooo, I get this. Real unfair of you to look like that when I’m contractually obligated to ventilate your skull.”

“Who sent you?” you ask.

“Ooo, straight to business. I like that. But sorry, sweetheart, daddy doesn’t kiss and tell—he just shoots and leaves you with unresolved questions.” He stops in front of you, gun angled but not quite lined up yet, because Blitzø has never been good at doing things the simple way when the complicated way is more fun.

He tilts his head, eyes narrowing with interest rather than pity. “Alright,” he says. “You got about ten seconds to say somethin’ real interesting before I get the f*ck back on schedule.”

You don’t answer him. Nope, you move instead. A sharp pivot, hand flashing out of sight and Blitzø barely has time to register the motion before something comes flying at his face with homicidal intent.

THWACK.

Whatever it is connects square between his eyes,!he staggers back with a very undignified yelp, gun clattering against the floor as he windmills for balance.

“SON OF A—”

You’re holding another object now. A f*cking lamp.

Blitzø blinks, cross-eyed for half a second, reaches up and pulls the offending projectile off his face.

Pink. Silicone. Ribbed. He stares at it. Then at you. Then back at it.

“…wow,” he says, offended on a spiritual level. “You kept this at arm’s reach, you lonely weirdo?!”

You don’t hesitate, hurling the lamp.

Blitzø scrambes sideways as it explodes against the wall where his head was a moment ago, sparks flying, smoke puffing, the whole apartment briefly looking like a Looney Tunes crime scene.

“HEY—” he shouts, skidding across the floor, grabbing his gun again, “I WAS GONNA KILL YOU PROFESSIONALLY, YOU PSYCHO BIT—”

Another object whizzes past his head. A plate. He doesn’t know where you’re getting them from. Is there a portal to an Ikea back here? He ducks behind the counter, panting, dignity in shambles.

“…okay,” he mutters, peeking over the edge as another random household item slams into the cabinets. “Didn’t realise I was sent to assassinate the f*cking clearance aisle.”

“What the f*ck are you?” you snap.

Blitzø straightens at his own pace, dusting himself off like this is mildly inconvenient at best as that feral grin crawls back onto his face.

“Oh, straight to profanity,” Blitzø says. “Usually people buy me dinner before asking that.” He squints at her, then brightens. “Name’s Blitzø, the o is silent.”

He spins the gun in his hand, leans aside as something whistles past his head. “Quick check,” he adds, gesturing between them, “does this count as domestic violence or are we still in the foreplay stage?”