As you turn the key in the lock and push open the door to your apartment, you're met with an eerie silence. A chill runs down your spine as you step inside, feeling a sense of unease settling in the pit of your stomach.
You flick on the lights, illuminating the dimly lit space. Your gaze scans the familiar surroundings, searching for any signs of intrusion or danger. Everything appears to be in its place, but something feels off.
And then you see him.
Standing in the center of your living room, like a statue carved from stone, is a man dressed in a black suit. His bald head catches the light, casting shadows across his sharp features. It's him. The man you've seen glimpses of for the past week, out of the corner of your eye. A fleeting reflection in a car window. The sound of footsteps trailing behind, only to disappear when you turn.
Your heart pounds in your chest as you try to process what's happening, why this man has been stalking you. There were no signs of forced entry. How did he even get in? Do you have any chance of escape? Panic threatens to consume you, but you force yourself to remain calm, to think rationally. He's waiting for you to make the first move.
"Who are you?" you say, your voice barely above a whisper.
He regards you with a piercing gaze, unreadable and inscrutable. There's no hint of emotion in his expression, no warmth in his eyes. The bulge in the pockets of his suit is unmistakable. Pistols, two of them. "I've been assigned a contract," he replies, his voice as cold and detached as ever. "Why don't you take a seat."
