A finely-dressed olive walks up to the Renaud-Lachap estate, and lets himself through the gate. He walks briskly up to the front door.

The auditor gives a solid knock on the door of the stately hive. No response. He glances over at the car in the driveway, rusting and decaying. Looked to once be a fine vehicle. But it hasn't moved in sweeps. The exterior walls of the house, too, are decaying and in need of maintenance. He muses to himself how Miss Renaud-Lachap's heir must not be all that great of a groundskeeper.

Another knock, harder this time. He hears something moving, something rustling, behind the door. And then... Piano? He tries the knob, but it's locked. Another knock. Nothing.

"Hello? Miss Juntar? Are you, are you there? I'm here to uh, take a look at the contents of the estate. It's very much overdo. I believe someone else was sent a while back?"

No response. The piano continues playing, faintly.

"Ma'am, if I'm forced to, I'll have to let myself in. I don't want to do that."

...

The playing stops with a harsh drop of notes. Nobody answers the door. The auditor sighs. He hates doing this, but it's part of the job.

"Okay. I'm coming in!"

From his pocket he pulls a master-key, and unlocks the heavy oak door. Inside is... A horrific sight. The wallpaper is peeling. Cobwebs build up in the corners. Purple blood is smeared on the walls, having dried long ago. The upholstery of the furniture is ripped and torn. Dust covers the floor and the shelves. Broken glass, broken ceramic, splintered wood. In the distance, footsteps. Light, but there.

"Miss Juntar, is everything okay here? Hello?"

Allowing himself to enter further into the hive, he turns the corner from the entryway, into the parlor. Similar state to the rest of the hive, albeit the piano- presumably the one he heard earlier- is pristine, untouched by time. The wood is polished and the keys are well-kept. Of all the things to keep clean and maintained, why a piano?

More footsteps. They seem to be in the kitchen. Hopefully that's Miss Juntar. You really need to talk to her about taking care of her things.

The kitchen is an atrocity. Dried grease and grime covers several of the burners, and the gas line has been broken and shoddily repaired, though gas services to this estate were cut off a long time ago. There's many broken cups and containers littering the floor, a carpet of broken glass. Blood has dried to the checkerboard tile, the same shade of purple as before.

For the first time, a voice hisses out from within the house, accompanying the cracking of plaster :

"Ith it thomeone new?"

-

"Ma'am? Miss Juntar? Can you come out and talk, please? We... We need to discuss the estate!"

crackling of plaster, of dust hitting hard floor, that's your 'talk'. you don't care for his LIES. this is YOUR home. he'll see that soon enough. you pass by the body of the last vermin they sent to steal it from you- desiccated now, teeth torn out, skull CRACKED. this one too, he'll see.

you grab a fork, nice and shiny, nice and SHARP, off one of the shelves. it'll do. you make your way to the food room, where this weak, WEAK cheri desecrates glacie's legacy.

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