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- You remember the name of everyone you ever met, and their relatives’, too.
- You are number 128 in a list of 100.
- Your hairstyle is confusing, but it reflects your inner turmoil.
- You have to open doors by yourself since the Asian woman whose function it was got assassinated before your very eyes. Damn doors.
- You have a seemingly endless collection of frenemies.
- You are the son of a cop and a cop yourself, very much of a straight arrow. That makes you boring even for the writers, so limited is your range.
- You are pregnant with the child of a contract killer you repeatedly beat up before sequestrating and torturing him. You are swooned when he proposes and you swear to have and to hold him.
- A senior agent, you are prone to venial faults like betraying your agency or nosying into your colleagues’ private life. Everyone involved loves you all the more for it.
- Your inexpugnable glass cell can only be open with a four digit code that even the smartest hackers can’t break.
- You are not the best looking lesbian on God’s green Earth, but you damn know your way with sulfuric acid.
- You can wax rhapsodically about the fate of this world, or donuts, sometimes in the same train of thought.
- You are the boss, so you are sick when you are not and you’re not when you are. It goes with the territory.
- You are vertically challenged and you enjoy making a point how shorter-fused than you taller and more powerful people are.
- You had a mother and a father once. Well, you think.
- You are black and muscular, gifted with a conscience and you mostly are abused, abducted and/or tortured. Also, you can drive.
