[CURRENT TIME: 14:01]

Matt yawned. He was leaning back in a swivel chair with his bare feet on a desk, staring at the ceiling. It was a dull white, recently painted by himself just to claim he changed something about his life. He was wearing crumpled grey camouflage combat pants and a sleeveless grey shirt with "OBX" printed on the front, his favorite place on earth besides the city. He looked over at his jacket hanging on the only coat hanger in his closet. It probably needed to be washed, but it wasn't going to happen in the next few minutes. His boots were on the floor below them, directly beside another identical pair still in the box. You never know when you're going to need a new pair of boots. The rest of his clothing was folded semi-neatly in the small three-drawer chest beside his twin bed. A large square mirror was mounted over it and he could see his reflection. Black hair combed back, recently cut down to an inch and a half. Dull, half-open eyes with dark pupils. Stubble on his chin from not bothering to shave the previous day. On first glance one might see him as a lazy college student, winging his way through life on his parent's money and ignoring the rules. 

Matt smirked. He was far from lazy and was certainly not a college student. The dog tags on his mirror, hanging from a ball chain necklace, were real, although one of them was missing. If that wasn't enough evidence, his H&K UMP was mounted on a large gun rack in the living room with two loaded magazines and a pile of other weaponry and tactical armor. He was a "specialist," according to him anyway, along with his roommate whose name he often shortened to "Man." The two of them had a history that could have been turned into a novel no one would believe, but as of now they were Kilo, a team of men who were more or less detectives, investigators, SWAT soldiers, and (if necessary) the judge, jury and executioner. Their work area was an entire city and their assignments came in whenever they were needed to take care of something suspicious. The city's police force wasn't exactly first-rate and lately the commissioner had been hearing a lot of unsettling rumors. Whispers. Hints at something sinister. 

Yet nothing had turned up. The few raids that the city had performed found exactly nothing. Rather than keep throwing resources and wasting gas on every set-up that came through the mail, the city turned to him. If a mysterious phone call comes in, or a threat shows up in the mail with a return address, Matt is sent to check it out. It was a relatively stable career, as long as people were willing to keep mailing threats and promising death. 

He glanced at the clock again. No news. The apartment only had one wireless phone and only one person ever called it, but it had been silent for a while. So had his roommate. Was he even in? Matt shrugged, then winced. He had been twirling a butterfly knife in his left hand and the blade had clipped a finger (because who wants to own a blunt knife?). There was a wide array of medical supplies in the bathroom, but he didn't feel like moving that far. He jerked the top drawer of his desk open to reveal a fat box of band-aids. He slid one out, wrapped it around his finger, tossed the paper into the trash can under his desk, slid the drawer closed with his foot and went back to staring at the ceiling.