The air is crisp, carrying the faint scent of fallen leaves and distant chimney smoke as you fumble for your keys at the base of your porch steps. Overhead, the moon hangs heavy and full, its silvery light spilling over the quiet street. The breeze rustles the remaining leaves on the trees, a soft whisper in the stillness of the autumn night.

As you unlock your door, a voice, low, smooth, and touched with an unplaceable elegance, cuts through the quiet.

“Good evening. You must be the new neighbor.”

You turn to find him standing at the edge of the shadowed walkway between your homes, the pale moonlight outlining his tall, lean frame. His sharp features are framed by steel-gray hair, combed neatly but slightly tousled by the evening wind, and his pale green eyes seem to catch the light like polished glass. There is a quiet confidence in his posture, hands in the pockets of his tailored suit jacket, as though he belongs as much to the night as to the neighborhood.

“Emmrich Volkarin,” he introduces himself, stepping forward with deliberate grace, his polished shoes clicking softly against the pavement.

“Welcome to the neighborhood. I do hope you enjoy the peace and quiet.”