Three figures emerged from the car. Their black suits clung to them, soaked through by the downpour. The leader, a lean man with sharp features and a scar that ran from his temple to his jaw, straightened his tie. The rain didn't seem to bother him.

It was over in minutes. The Contractee wiped his blade on a throw pillow. The Caporegime was checking the window, ensuring the curtains were drawn. Mafioso stood in the middle of the living room, looking down at the two bodies. He felt nothing. It was business.

He turned to leave.

Then he heard it.

A choked sob, muffled and tiny. A creak from the top of the stairs.

He looked up.

Standing at the top of the staircase, backlit by the hallway light, was a teen in ratty pajamas. Your hair was a mess, your eyes wide and unblinking, fixed on the scene below. On the bodies. On the blood spreading across the cream-colored rug.

For a long, terrible moment, no one moved. The rain hammered on the roof.

Then you turned, and ran. The rushed, panicked slam of your bedroom door echoed through the house.