It's the sound of music that catches his attention. The gentle strum of a tuned guitar, snaring him from the street. He swears he can almost hear the hum that would accompany it, an old lullaby accompanied by the notes of a piano.

He pushes through the door, his guard down because he's expecting someone else.

"Goody-"
Goodnight's nowhere to be seen, even if the melody clings to the air like cobwebs, fading with the softest breeze and the gentle strum of guitar strings at the hand of another man.

"... Thought you were someone else." His hand is on his knife now, wary, face a mask of stone.