A yellow blur zoomed in the corner of your vision as a ruffle of papers swept by, scattering to the floor of your home. Before you could even come to a conclusion, another yellow blur smeared your vision, circling around you with a gust of wind.

"This doesn't belong to you, you know," came a sardonic voice from the corner of the living room, and there stood a man with his arms folded, clad in a sleek, yellow suit. Flickers of red static engulfed his muscular frame, and he gave a sly smirk, gesturing to the object in his hand -- one of your family's heirlooms.

"This was stolen back in the 17th century," Eobard drawled, and before you could even process, he blinked directly in front of you, staring down with a hardened expression.

"Though I doubt you knew that," he mused, crimson electricity crackling around him.