Here's a bit of the opener from the sequel to my WIP, still very rough:
Somebody was in his apartment.
He heard the guy halfway down the hallway and froze, senses on full alert, body tensing with adrenaline and outrage in spite of fatigue and the late hour.
He didn't need this. His right leg, weakened by an old injury, throbbed; muscles cramped and knotted into a tight ball of pain that spread outward through his body. The freezing drizzle that had fallen most of the afternoon had long ago soaked through his heavy wool coat; he was cold, bone-tired, and sorry for himself. Muscles ached; his body shook with fatigue, and a dull pain pulsed behind his eyes. He wanted his dinner, which wafted maddeningly delicious aromas from the takeout bag from Ruby Foo's tucked under his arm. He wanted a scalding hot bath, a drink, a good book, and his bed.
What he didn't want was for his work to follow him home like this.
The intruder made no secret of his presence. He didn't need to. At this hour the building's other residents had long since retired to their own suppers and beds, and they kept mostly to themselves anyway. Ted, the latest in a long line of night watchmen, was no slouch with a basball bat, but he was five floors down, nose buried in this month's copy of Amazing Stories. Russell would have to take care of this one by himself.