My head snapped up at the sound of footsteps outside my door. The book slowly lowered onto the comforter and I crept off my bed, not making a sound. The footsteps were still coming, but they were slow and deliberate, as if whoever was making them was trying to be silent. I almost smiled--they couldn't hide from me.

I felt the familiar tug of my knives materializing, sliding down my sleeves and coming to rest in the palms of my hands. I curled my fingers around the familiar hilts, tracing the carvings with my thumb. My eyes were locked on the door, and the soft pats halted. I crept towards the side of the door and pressed my back to the wall, my gaze locked on the doorknob as it slowly, silently, began to turn.

I didn't dare breathe. The door opened a crack, and paused. I still didn't move.

There was a bang as the door flew forward and hit the opposite wall, it's hinges nearly coming out of the door frame. I counted to three. I could feel the anger radiating off of whoever it was, and with it, the smell of fear.

Afraid of me, or someone else? I wondered as I waited. Finally, there was the sound of boots hitting broken wood, and I darted out into the open, my knives at the intruder's throat.