The following day, around 6 PM.
Don stood in front of Charles's door wearing charcoal joggers, a fitted black tee, and a light gray zip hoodie left half open. Comfortable. Casual. No effort wasted.
He knocked once.
Solid. Measured.
Then a soft mechanical hum answered him.
A thin beam of light swept downward from a panel above the door, scanning from his hairline to his shoes. It paused briefly at his face.
A synthetic voice followed.
"Welcome, Mr. Bright."
The door slid open with a clean hydraulic glide.
Don stepped inside.
The air carried that same faint scent he'd come to associate with Charles's home—aged wood, leather, something subtle and expensive burning somewhere unseen.
The interior lights adjusted automatically as he crossed the threshold, brightening just slightly to match the fading daylight outside.
He didn't stop to admire the place.
He walked straight toward the costume device.
