Kefka lumbered over the knotted, creaking floorboards before coming to the ill-fitting door that led to the second story apartment. Once the second floor had been nothing but a loft, but several years back it had been enclosed and built up into a long, squat room that spanned the front side of the bar. He calmly shouldered the door open (it had the stubborn tendency to stick), and walked in. He saw a tangled heap a man in a flannel shirt and long underwear, his curly dark hair in a state of revolt. It was Abram, snoring fitfully as he sprawled against the opposite wall, underneath the window. Kefka could smell the whiskey on his brother from across the room, but the young werewolf noted his brother was not in a stupor- even as Kefka stepped closer he saw his kin shift and clutch instinctively at the .45 carbine cradled in his arms. A glance around the room revealed the familiar and mostly empty tarps, crates and barrels that the family had stowed up here, keeping them out of the way of the day-to-day business.
A fly buzzed relentlessly against one of the old window panes. There was no sign of the troublesome strangers or of his father, Kefka noted.
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