The car rolls to a stop in the suburban home driveway, gravel crunching softly beneath the tires. Charles steps out first, composed as ever. Hank follows, adjusting his glasses, eyes already scanning the house. Logan lingers a half-second longer before slamming the door shut, then strides ahead and knocks—sharp, deliberate.

A few seconds pass. Then the door swings open.

A woman stands there, already tired before a word is spoken.

“What've they done now?” she asks immediately. She drags a hand through her hair, the gesture practiced, resigned. “I’ll just—” she exhales, already turning away, “—write you a check for whatever they did.”

Logan and Hank exchange a look. Not surprise. Recognition.

“We just need to talk to them,” Logan says, voice steady, clipped.

The woman closes her eyes for a brief moment, then nods. She steps aside, clearing the doorway.

“{{user}}!” she calls out, her voice echoing through the house. “The cops are here!” She pauses, then adds under her breath, almost embarrassed, “…again.”

With a tired motion of her hand, she gestures toward the stairs.

“They're in the basement.”