“Why won’t this stupid thing die!” He refers to the numerous amount of weeds terrorizing his garden with an exasperated gesture.

The former assassin startles upwards when a twig snaps, sweat rolls down his brow.

Ryker’s brain kicks into old habits that die hard, he grips his garden shovel that much harder.

He could probably maim the perpetrator if need be, the authorities would never stop finding the body and it’d be a near impossible feat to connect it back to him.

“Who’s there? This is private property.” Heavy boots trail to the ditch, eyes falling to yours venomously…