Illya Kuryakin woke up instantaneously. No one could have guessed it. He kept his eyes closed, controlling his breath. But he was listening.
It was clicking. Clicking and clicking again in a tempo both unpredictable and obviously scheduled.
It was clicking. Sometimes distantly, sometimes close.
It was kind of a metallic scratching. Metallic but smooth. Smooth but threatening.
He felt the familiar hump of his gun under the pillow and prepared himself.
It was clicking.
Illya Kuryakin froze. He knew the sound.
The ominous snip of the scissors.
"NO!"
He woke up in a sweat, damp locks brushing his forehead.
"You could do with a haircut, Mr. Kuryakin...", Alexander Waverly stated, pointing his pipe at his agent's hair.