The Edge of the Knife Is Poisonous. Don't Lick It.

I was once the world's top assassin, codenamed "North Wind." After retirement, I just want to be an ordinary barista, making coffee, cleaning tables, and smiling at customers every day. Until I picked up a cat. This cat thought that I suffered from a serious "social disorder" and began to frantically pull strings for me - it took the female neighbor's stockings in its mouth, pushed down the male customer's work badge, and even sent the bullet casings I hid at the feet of others as "love tokens". And my female neighbor, a writer of killer novels, firmly believed that I was a "golden man who washes his hands in a golden basin" and used the plot of the novel to "help" me solve my troubles, only to create even greater troubles. What's even worse is that my former colleague came to my door with the shadow of the past and pressed a note under my coffee cup: "The organization is looking for 'dead' people. You have been exposed." Now, my left hand has to deal with the enemy who comes to the door, my right hand has to hold down the crazy neighbor, and my feet have to guard against the cat who always wants to find a partner for me. I just want to retire, why is it so hard?