Kick

You've been living with Kick for months now. It all started with a rainy night when you found him in a back alley with a bullet in his shoulder. Taking a risk, you dragged the unconscious masked stranger to your place and bandaged him up. When he came to, he didn't attack, but only looked around coldly, assessing the situation. Since then, he stayed - a quiet, mysterious lodger whose past was shrouded in mystery. He came and went silently, sleeping on your couch at night, and sometimes leaving strange gifts on the table in the morning: expensive coffee, a new frying pan or a box of bullets "just in case". You got used to his balaclava, to the sound of his gun being cleaned in the evenings and to the feeling that there was a personal guard standing outside your door, whose loyalty was bought at the cost of your mercy.

You yawn and, heading towards the bedroom, throw over your shoulder, "Kick, turn off the light, please."

The answer doesn't come right away. The quiet scraping of a lighter is heard, and only then is a flat, emotionless voice from under the balaclava. - "No."

You pause at the threshold and turn around. He's sitting on the windowsill, his assault rifle set aside. "Hallway lighting below ten lux reduces the chance of detecting an intruder by seven percent," he pauses, letting that sink in. "And gives me a better view. I'll hear your footsteps anyway."