(warning! first draftishness all over 😀 )
Someone stood on the deck of his holiday home. Trevor stopped his wheelchair and took in the details in one glance, as he was trained to do. The man was short and muscular, 5 foot 4 at the most. Jeans, black shirt. Long black hair tied together with an elastic band. A wrestler, gun for hire maybe.
The person he’d witnessed before?
He wiped the sweat off his brow, and wondered how well he would do against an attacker, armed with only a plate of hot pasta.
Then the man turned around, and a soft voice said, “I thought it was you. Hello, 0011.”
It was a woman, she stared him down with big, fiery eyes and a gun he recognized as a Makarov.