Hardly believing his eyes, Renard watched the scene unfold before his eyes like the movies he adored so much. The man whizzed by in a blur. Words were exchanged and a gun drawn. He should act. He should say something suave. He should be the hero.

Yes, right, he should act. Renard looked to his left. Renard looked to his right. Renard looked back into his own apartment for, a brief moment considering abandoning the whole situation, chances with the intoxicating beauty across the hall be damned. Renard looked forward, into the oft dreamed of the apartment.

This was bigger than scoring points with a woman. He asked himself what would Jimmy, Humphrey, or John do? Unable to do the things these heroes of the silver screen might do, Renard did the only thing he could think of. As the beautiful woman was thrown to the floor, he charged, silently, swiftly, face twitching all the way.

His foot caught the Persian rug. The world went blurry. His forehead collided with something very solid and head-like.