He rolled out of bed and rubbed his sweat glazed face, ignoring the roughness of his cheek against his smooth hands. The living room was dirty and cluttered and he realised that his obsession was taking too much hold over him. Malcolm was rarely so infatuated with something but he refused to let his unease interrupt his pleasure. He even ignored his nightmares to return every few hours to his escape.

He slumped in a chair and prepared to play. He was doing better than he had before, getting past the hardest part when the assassin crept into the inn and…
Malcolm’s thoughts paused like the game. He hadn’t pressed anything put the two-lined icon was flashing red in the corner of the screen. Almost like an alarm. And he felt cold steel at his neck.

Noone had keys to his apartment, not even him! The steel pressed a little harder and he lifted his chin.

“Who are you?”

The pressure relaxed so that he could turn and he looked straight at the intruder, finding himself looking into the eyes of the lady assassin.