No one knocks anymore.
They all just barge in. Windows, doors, the molded hole in the side of the sun room.
Ingrates! All of them! Who do they think they are?
The sound of fist on wood ( HA ! ) is a foreign noise, indeed.
Even more foreign ?
That rumbly, tumbly baritone that claims eff bee eye.
We don’t… Like… Feds.. Very much…
The last time they were around?
They ruined our favorite black sweater.
❝ We’re not buying whatever you’re selling. ❞
[ Fingers quickly trailed through his tawny tresses as he waited patiently for the stranger to answer the door.
Even if the EMF wasn’t going crazier the closer he approached, the vibes he was receiving from the house was enough for him to question what sorts of people lived here.
—-If they even were people. ]
“Not tryna’ sell you anything.”
[ Precise hands fumbled through his coat’s pockets before revealing an authentic-looking ID. ]
"Agent Carroway with the FBI.
—-I’m gonna need to ask you a few questions.“