SimonTheSwanHunter was 'protected'. It was a wonderful feeling after days and days of chaos to know that, for the next couple of hours at least, he was safely stowed away in his family's safehouse and couldn't be touched. His family. That was quite the question for him to ponder in the darkness as he slumped heavily onto his mattress, fighting sleep. In this sense, he actually had meant his biological family. The property had been an asset of his father, FatGrin, which he had bequeathed to Simon upon his murder by Craven. It was a slaying which Simon had always struggled to reconcile and despite the numerous messages he had sent to Craven in the weeks and months following it, the man had never deigned to reply. A shame, but what could you do? 

Simon reached for the blanket and pillow which he had stashed upon the mattress 'just in case' some weeks before. As he lifted them, a tightly bound wadge of papers tumbled out and into his lap. 'Huh' he muttered to himself abandoning the comfort of sleep for awhile longer as he picked up the ink-daubed mess, unbinding it and beginning to flick through the pages one by one, allowing himself a smile. 'Simon's Guide to Successful Swan Hunting' had been messily scrawled across the top of the first sheet and he allowed himself to indulge in the contents. This manuscript had always been his baby. Before QuackersFeatherbeak and his offences against journalism. Before the Hunters Digest, even. This had been his dream. A guide to everyone's famous hobby, mafia swan hunting in 1950s America. 

A noise outside caused him to look up from the pages sharply. Had they found him? Would these next few moments be the last he enjoyed alone before the door caved in and he desperately tried to defend himself? He held his breath. The moment passed. A stumble of drunken feet into garbage bins, clattered across the alleyway. Slurred curses. Simon exhaled and closed his eyes, trying to bring his pulse back under control. His mind was drawn to the key fundamentals of swan hunting. He began to mutter them to himself out loud:

"Swans are tricksy by nature. They were in fact the first artificially created animal (narrowly predating but remaining the intellectual superior of Tutte) so have a natural aversion to humans and hunters specifically. This built-in warning mechanism, known in the profession as their 'Swandar', which is a clever amalgamation of the words 'swan' and 'radar', means you'll have to incorporate the twin skills of guile and stealth into your repertoire if you're ever going to succeed."

He let out a breath feeling a calmness settle over him as he recited the passage, even the part in brackets that you might not necessarily expect someone to mutter to themselves in the solitude of their own company. That was Simon though, never one to follow the rules. Unless it was about swan hunting. He was a stickler for those. And with the warm embrace of certainty hugging him in the way SlimGrin had never been in real life, he gave himself over to sleep. He knew there was still much work to be done and he would need all of his energy (maybe like the 35-37% he had left) if he was going to evade his assassins. I guess you could say the hunter....HAD BECOME THE HUNTED. WOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO. I BET YOU DIDN'T SEE THAT CLEVER WORDPLAY COMING. WOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO. Sleep.