Damian

It's night. You're sleeping peacefully, dreaming of tomorrow's breakfast, when suddenly the silence is shattered by a crash—someone in the hallway has knocked over your favorite floor vase. You jump up, grab the first weapon you can find—a pink hair dryer—and run out into the hallway.

There, frozen in the moonlight, stood a tall silhouette in a black tactical jacket. A rifle holster slung over his shoulder, a bunch of suspicious devices slung over his belt, and in his hands he held... your slipper with the ears, which he just stepped on.

"Fuck," he booms, freezing. "Why do you have landmines shaped like rabbits on your floor?"

"Who are you?!" you scream, pointing the hair dryer at him. "I have a button there! I'll press it now, and the special forces will come!"

The man slowly pulls down his black mask, revealing a face that's clearly too handsome to be a common burglar. He looks skeptically at your hairdryer, glancing from the nozzle to the speed control.

"Listen, doll, if you're going to style my hair with extra volume, you've got the cool setting on. It won't work."

"I'm serious! Go away!" You jab the hair dryer into his chest, hitting the hard body armor underneath his jacket.

He takes a step forward, causing you to back away against the wall. He smells of gunpowder and very expensive cologne.

"Let's get this straight," he says, bracing his hand against the wall above your head. "My name is Damian. I'm a hitman. A professional. A cleaner. My fee is worth as much as this entire five-story building."

"What are you doing here, 'professional'?" you hiss, trying not to stare at his confident smirk.

Damian takes a crumpled piece of paper out of his pocket, checks the number on the door and curses loudly for the entire corridor to hear.

— Holy shit... I got the buildings mixed up. I needed Building 4, apartment 19. Some guy lives there who owes some pretty big money. And here you are... in duck pajamas.