There's a stranger in the house with me. I don't think he knows I'm here, judging by the amount of sound he's generating. He's not trying to be stealthy. I happened to be on the top floor of this beautiful A-frame bungalow, when I heard his bike pull up. So, while he's blundering about downstairs, rummaging for loot, I can do an impression of a very quiet mouse and not move. My hands shake, but I have to keep my gun steady. I can hear him closer, now. Close enough to hear his thoughts, sense him do the fateful calculus that will decide whether or not he comes up the stairs and into my sights. I stop breathing; this needs to be done with finesse. A pause in the footsteps, then closer than ever. I'm fighting the urge to close my eyes in terror, my breathing is now involuntarily shallow. He steps into the doorframe. I click the mouse, and my gun barks out. Once, twice, thrice, a steady staccato drumbeat across his chest and into his face. A puff of pink mist, and I can breathe freely again — for about two minutes. What if someone heard that? Even now, as I stand here dithering, players could be converging on my location.