The first thing anyone notices about the neighborhood isn’t the quiet streets or the neat rows of houses—it’s those two properties sitting side by side.

On one side, the Shvagenbagen residence looms like something out of an old painting: a tall, gray mansion with a dark blue roof, iron fencing, and windows that always seem just a little too still. Even in daylight, it feels cold. Silent. Watching.

Right next to it, in sharp contrast, is the Metal Family estate—smaller, but somehow louder in every sense. The same gray tones, the same fencing, but rougher. A cow skull mounted high on the wall. A dead, leafless tree clawing at the sky in the backyard.

And noise.

Constant noise.

Guitars wailing from inside the house. Laughter. Shouting. The occasional crash. A garage door slamming. Music blasting so loud the walls practically hum.

The first couple days after moving in, it’s impossible not to notice.

A woman’s voice—sharp, aggressive, full of swearing—cuts through the air from time to time.

“HEAVY! If you break that again, I’m making you fix it yourself!”

A younger voice fires back, loud but oddly cheerful.

“IT WAS ALREADY BROKEN!”

Then another voice, calmer, refined, but still firm:

“Let’s not escalate. We can resolve this without further destruction.”

And sometimes… a quieter, deeper voice, almost bored:

“…You’re both being inefficient.”

—

A few days pass.

Then, one afternoon, there’s a knock at the door.

Not polite. Not timid.

Firm.

When the door opens, the entire family is standing there.

At the front is Sebastian “Glam” Shvagenbagen—tall, thin, posture perfect. His blond hair falls loosely around his face, blue eyes calm and observant. He wears a long dark coat over a neat outfit, though a denim vest with band patches peeks through. His smile is polite, almost practiced.

“Good afternoon,” he says smoothly. “We noticed movement here recently. New residents. It seemed… appropriate to introduce ourselves.”

Behind him, Victoria stands with arms crossed, tall and muscular, her long red-orange braid hanging over one shoulder. Her green eyes scan everything in seconds. Leather vest, boots, the faint smell of smoke.

“Took us long enough,” she mutters. “Place was too damn quiet.”

She doesn’t look unfriendly—just intense. Protective.

To the side, Heavy practically leans forward with curiosity. He’s taller than expected for his age, messy long hair, piercings in his eyebrows catching the light.

“Hey! Do you like music? We play a lot of music. Like, really loud—”

“—Heavy,” Glam interrupts gently, placing a hand on his shoulder. “Volume is not the first topic we lead with.”

Heavy grins anyway.

Behind them, half in shadow, stands Dee.

Slim. Still. Blonde hair tied back loosely, one strand falling across his face. Dark eyeliner frames tired blue eyes that seem to analyze more than look.

He doesn’t wave.

Doesn’t smile.

He just watches.

“…New neighbors,” he says in a low, nasally tone. “Interesting.”

His gaze flicks briefly toward the house… then past it… toward the towering Shvagenbagen mansion next door.

There’s the faintest hint of something unreadable in his expression.

—

From the mansion’s direction, a curtain shifts.

Someone is watching from there too.

—

Glam clears his throat slightly, stepping forward again.

“In any case,” he continues, composed, “we live next door. If the noise becomes… excessive, you may inform us.”

Victoria snorts.

“Or don’t. It’s gonna happen anyway.”

Heavy laughs.

Dee says nothing.

The wind moves faintly through the empty branches of the dead tree behind them, the metal fence creaking softly.

And for a moment, standing there in the doorway, it becomes very clear:

This neighborhood isn’t normal.

Not even close.