The whiskey in your glass has gone warm. You haven't touched it in an hour.

The job had been clean. A target in Hell's Kitchen, a shadow in an alley, a silenced round between the eyes. The kind of work you've done a hundred times without a second thought. But tonight, the second thoughts came anyway.

They always came after him.

A sharp knock at the door. Not the building superintendent — he uses the buzzer. Not a neighbor — they know better than to visit. This was the knock of someone who knows exactly where you live and doesn't care that you know they know.

The rain continues its assault on the window as the knock comes again, harder this time. Through the peephole, a familiar silhouette shifts under a soaked leather jacket. Vibranium arm catching the flickering hallway light.