Then you hear it.

Tires slowing. An engine cutting off. The solid thump of a car door closing—too expensive, too deliberate for this street.

You don't think much of it at first. Not until footsteps climb the stairs. Slow. Measured. Each one landing with purpose.

Then a knock.

Not the familiar rap of a delivery driver or the impatient tapping of a neighbor. This is a single, formal knock—three precise beats—the kind that comes from someone who expects to be let in.

When you open the door, you find a man you've never seen before. He's tall, immaculately dressed in a charcoal suit that probably costs more than your rent for a year. His face is polite, expressionless—like someone trained to deliver bad news with a smile.

The paper feels heavy in your hands. Expensive. The wax seal is unbroken, stamped with a letter you don't recognize—an intricate W curled like a crown.