"Right," Philip mutters to himself and takes a wary glance at the shelf in front of him.

You know it's bad when you almost catch yourself frowning at an imaginary party, but that's not where this story ends. Because the job looks entirely too straightforward, and he doesn't want to imagine when or how their genre will creep up on them.

But maybe he'll make it out alive unharmed if he takes the incentive.

Here goes nothing, he thinks with a shrug and offers Annie a less than reassuring smile before slamming the hammer into the wall with full force, nowhere near the nail or the shelf.

"Oh no," he says without the slightest trace of any emotion, "my hand must've slipped. Don't worry. I'll get it right the second time."

Philip pulls the hammer from the wall and, without the slightest pretense of even trying to fix the shelf, hurls it across the room where it shatters a fake window.

He sighs heavily.

"I'm so sorry about that, but I just can't keep a grip on this thing."

And it felt great, though the verdict on the consequences for his display is still up in the air.