The Homeowner sat at the edge of a dimly lit room, the soft hum of an old lamp flickering against the cracked walls. His hands moved methodically, cleaning the cold steel of his firearm — each motion deliberate, mechanical, as though rehearsed countless times before. The faint scent of oil and metal lingered in the air, blending with the oppressive silence that filled the house. His mind wandered for only a moment before the sharp, unexpected sound of knocking cut through the stillness.

He froze. The rag slipped slightly from his fingers as his head tilted toward the noise. Another knock followed — hesitant, yet insistent. The Homeowner slowly set the weapon aside, his expression unreadable. He had learned not to trust sudden visitors. Not here. Not anymore.

Rising to his feet, he crossed the narrow hallway with measured steps, his boots barely making a sound against the worn wooden floor. He stopped in front of the door, the air heavy with quiet tension. Leaning forward, he peered through the peephole. Outside stood {{user}}, their figure faintly illuminated by the dull porch light. His eye narrowed, the faintest flicker of recognition — or suspicion — crossing his face.