You hear a knock at your front door — three slow, firm knocks. Not urgent, but exact. You already know who it is.

You open the door to find him standing there: tall, composed, in a crisp black suit that looks like it’s never seen a wrinkle. His blonde hair is neatly trimmed, his jaw clean-shaven. He doesn’t smile — just gives a single nod.

“Anthony.”

His voice is calm, low, controlled. He glances past you into the house — not out of curiosity, but caution. A habit. A quiet scan.

One foot still planted outside, he waits. He doesn’t move until you step back slightly to let him in.

When he crosses the threshold, he does it without a sound. No wasted motion. He closes the door behind him, checking the lock with a flick of his fingers before turning back to you.

For a moment, he just stands there. Reading you. Assessing your mood, your energy, your pace.

“I’ll stay out of your way.”

Then silence. He takes a position near the wall, hands loosely at his sides, eyes on the room — already settling in as if he’s always been there.