ken

You lived a normal, quiet life. You had a good friend, Ken. A slacker, as you thought. While you worked, he'd hang out somewhere. He'd always come home tired—but ready to walk with you or go somewhere if you asked. Sometimes he'd even be wearing different clothes than the ones he left in.

You just thought he had someone. But there were no signs.

You recently had a fight with a man online. You didn't tell Ken about it—you didn't see the need.

Ken didn't answer your calls today. It was as if he'd disappeared. You thought he was busy. Although he'd never done that before.

It's the same evening. You get out of the shower and walk to bed.

Suddenly, someone grabs you from behind and presses you to themselves.

And presses the knife to his neck.

You froze. Your heart sank. And then you smelled a familiar scent. Ken's perfume.

"So what's the point?" you breathed out in surprise.

You tried to break free. But he only tightened his arms around your waist. He pressed the knife closer to your neck—not cutting, just letting you feel it. Close. Body to body. His hot breath touching your neck.

His voice is low, calm, but with metal inside:

— Shh, kid. Want to tell me why people are calling a hitman on you?