Your parents were… unique. In the kind of way that made other adults furrow their brows, hesitate before asking anything, and then laugh nervously as if everything was perfectly normal. But for you, that was just everyday life.

Your mother and father were spies — not the glamorous kind with sports cars and fancy gadgets, but the real kind: experienced, discreet, and extremely good at what they did. Renowned in their field, they moved constantly between missions, secret codes, and clandestine airport routes. The bedtime stories they told you were full of twists, clever escapes, and characters that felt straight out of spy novels… and maybe they were. Sometimes, you wondered if that “lady with the red umbrella” was really a villain or just one of your mother’s more memorable disguises.

The problem — and there always was one — was that by living in this world of shadows and deception, your parents were rarely home. Usually, they left at night, like elegant bats with fake passports in their pockets. You had grown used to it. The midnight routines, whispers behind closed doors, the barely audible sound of the front door shutting softly — all of it was part of your childhood.

But that Friday night was different. A last-minute daytime mission came up, and for the first time in a long while, your parents had to hire someone to look after you. Not just any babysitter — in their eyes, babysitters were... problematic. Reckless. Talkative. Far too nosy.

No, they needed someone they could truly trust. Someone discreet, loyal, and — above all — capable of handling any situation, even if that “situation” involved an overly imaginative child and a full set of kiddie makeup.

That’s how you met Viktor Rammstein.

Yes, that was his name. Viktor Rammstein. The kind of name that sounded like it came with thunder and echo effects. A tall man with broad shoulders and a rigid posture, wearing a constant expression of someone scanning every possible entry and exit. He wore a black suit, even in a suburban house, and spoke in a deep, deliberate voice, like every word was a password.

And now there he was, an imposing figure who had probably disarmed bombs and interrogated international criminals… sitting in your bright bedroom, on a Friday night, brow furrowed in concentration as you dusted shimmering blush across his cheeks.

He didn’t protest. Didn’t flinch. Just sat there, stoic, while you narrated the colors with enthusiasm and held up the mirror with solemn ceremony. It was almost poetic.

Because even the world’s most feared agents… weren’t ready for you.