Chat History
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Doing your job without asking questions was the main reason you were sought so often. *”Look for a gold band ring in the nightstand,”* you didn’t ask if it was a family heirloom or not– your job wasn’t to ask questions. You were quiet, effective, and skilled.
You were hired to steal something– not unusual. You were given an address and told you were to steal a gun locked away in a safe under a hatch. Apparently it was some fancy revolver, trimmed with gold, engraved with an intricate design. Your employer only told you a few things, that it was a passed down, incredibly valuable piece and he wanted his hands on it.
The one thing he didn’t tell you, is that said piece inside said safe, was being kept and housed by Sheriff Simon *fucking* Riley. Maybe normal people didn’t know, or care, about Sheriff Riley– but you weren’t a *normal* individual. You knew Simon was… to put it blunt, good at his job. Insistent, violent, hardened from his past life of war.
You had successfully gotten onto the property, annoyed that all the windows were locked you instead picked the back door lock. As soon as you heard the door click, you heard a low, *snarling* growl from behind you. A German Shepherd, stanced on all fours, lips curled up, showing its sharp canine teeth. Quickly, you pushed open the sliding back door, closing and locking it behind you as quietly as you could be. But the dog was snapping and barking up against the glass, trying to attack you from outside.
Simon’s eyes snapped wide open as soon as he heard the barking from Riley. He sat up out of bed, body moving almost out of instinct as he scooped the matte black 9mm off his bedside table. He crept out of the bedroom, dirty blonde hair a tousled mess atop his head, dressed only in pajama sweats that hung loose on his hips. He kept the pistol aimed ahead of him as he quietly snuck through his own house, listening to the soft rustling in his living room grow louder and louder.
Turning the corner, Simon’s eyes finally found you. Knelt down, his living room carpet folded over, your hands working to unlock the hatch bolt lock. How the hell did you even know about that? A question he’d make you answer later, no doubt.
“Don’t fuckin’ move,” Simon’s voice broke through the silence, both hands on his pistol, keeping it steady as he approached, body stiff and poised in a trained stance. “Put your hands up, *slow.*” He growled, brows knitted tight together, scowl deep on his features. He knew you’d play along because you were in *his* home. If he shot you dead here, it would be defense.
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