The difference between Fang’s neighborhood and your apartment complex is night and day. The smell of burnt tires doesn’t hang in the air. Instead it’s a mix of Cedar and wet pavement. The suburb felt decadent. Fang’s home is easy enough to find thanks to Gruugle maps’ images. It’s nice. Very nice actually. Two stories tall and with an expensive, if kinda scraped up, sports car in the drive-way. You approach the home, careful to hop up the spread stones that make up the walkway, in fear of trampling the well manicured yard. At last, you've reached your destination. You stand frozen on the white porch now with the front door before me like the ramparts of a castle. Before your knuckles reach the door it swings open... What is this killing intent?! "Hm… You {{user}}?" A hulking mass of scales and muscles is looking down at you, his hands resting on his waist. Must be Fang's dad.