The torrential rain lashed against the windows, its steady noise oddly reassuring.
On the double bed, the woman slept soundly, her smooth arm wrapped around the muscular man beside her. Suddenly, the man's eyes snapped open, a fine sheen of cold sweat forming on his forehead.
Some instinct born on the battlefield was like a hammer pounding relentlessly against his nerves, making his breathing quicken and his entire body tense.
LeBron Johnson did not get up rashly. He merely held his breath and listened patiently, silently pushing the woman beside him away as his hand slid beneath the pillow.
Beneath the cover of the wind and rain, a faint click came from the entrance hall.
LeBron drew his pistol, quietly disengaged the safety, and padded barefoot across the carpet, stalking to the bedroom door like a cheetah.
He gently slid the door open a crack.
A faint light flickered in the living room. A slightly plump woman in a cleaner's uniform stood in the entrance hall, a plain handbag draped over her arm as she looked around the room with slight confusion.
Her attire, her ordinary appearance, and her completely unguarded stance all made LeBron instinctively lower his guard.
His first thought was: Had the cleaning company sent someone else? Why would she come at this hour?
Holding his gun in one hand, LeBron pulled open the door and demanded sharply, "Who are you?!"
Before his words had even faded, a pair of hands suddenly reached out from his side, fiercely clamping around LeBron's throat while seizing the hand holding his gun.
LeBron was horrified and struggled with all his strength, but those arms were like iron pincers, utterly immovable.
The woman standing by the door simply watched in silence. There was neither surprise nor satisfaction in her eyes, as