The Wrong Place at the Right Time (unfinished)

Let me ask you a question.
You've been reading along, learning about me and my disposition. You've seen my living room, my back room, and my basement. You've seen my indulgences, vices and the bad habits I keep feeding. You've seen what I'm capable of, and how dangerous I can be when I'm riled. You've seen more of me than most people have lived to talk about, more than enough to make a judgment call on who I am and what I'm like.
So tell me, what do you think a man like me does to people stupid enough to break into the place he lives?
Most people who practice any magic set up wards and protections around and inside of their places of residence, to give themselves that extra sense of security. I've never shared that kind of mindset. Anyone who's got their Eye open can see that shit; if not the wards themselves, then the stain they've left on the surrounding atmosphere. Most wards worth any salt have effects you can't just handwave if a mundane man comes waltzing into them, either. Fuckhead home invader walks up to your place with bad intentions and gets flash-fried by your magic home defense grid. Now you've got a charred carcass you've got to deal with before neighbors wake up and cops are called. Have fun with that.
No, I don't need big-time protection all over my apartment. What I've got on my person is more than enough. Anybody who's good enough to take me is good enough to find a way right past that shit, anyway. And if they do find where I live, I'll see them coming long before they see me leaving.
The problem with my approach, though, is that it leaves my place just as vulnerable as every other. At the end of the day, my apartment is just an apartment, with as much built-in security as the next alcoholic junkie fuckhead's budget could afford him. (As in, none.) Any given night could see some would-be burglar creeping their ass in through the window in the hopes of finding something worth pilfering.
Or, in the case of tonight, two would-be burglars.