the townhouse
The curtains were still pulled, and the house, from the outside, seemed perfectly quiet. Wherever the music was coming from on the roof, the person playing it outside any line of sight from the ground.
Inside the front door was a small, well-appointed living room - high-end furniture, a few choice and clean antiques displayed in a case by the wall, and a large screen television tuned to soccer. More notable than the furniture, however - more notable even than the dark-haired boy sprawled out on the couch, who couldn't be much older than nineteen - was the complete and total lack of sound.
Walking through the front door was instant deafness. Outside was the murmur of music from the roof and the rush of distant, early-morning traffic - inside was a complete and total muffling of any sound at all. The TV was running subtitles in portugese, and the boy on the couch was apparently watching them, none the wiser that someone had entered just behind him. Not yet, anyway.