Apologize.

Rubbing your face in your hand, you groan at the man's absolute refusal to accept your anger. He stands there quietly, awaiting your response to his question - a consummate professional. In comparison, your own behavior suddenly makes you feel very embarrassed.

After a moment, you sigh in defeat. "Sorry. I don't like being woken up early on my days off. Yeah, I'm Noah. Why? Am I being sued or something?"

"It's fine," the man responds stiffly - his expression clearly answering that it's not fine, but he's in no position to say otherwise. "My name is Reginald Baxter, and my office specifically represents wills and estates. You are not facing litigation, at least not via my firm, though I would suggest we discuss this matter further inside." He looks around at the doors surrounding him in the hallway, then glances back at you in a silent expression with clear meaning: you want this to be private.

Meanwhile, your once-sleepy mind is suddenly very awake. Wills and estates? But that means... who died? The stern, quiet visage of the lawyer on your doorstep offers no clue. With a frown, you step back from your doorway and gesture for the man to enter.

"Sorry," you find yourself saying - almost involuntarily - as your well-dressed visitor steps into your main room. "I wasn't expecting anyone today."

"...So I see," Mr. Baxter responds flatly, looking around him. "It is no matter. We won't be long. I just need you to get properly and fully... clothed, if you don't mind... so that I can bring you to your inheritance and finish signing papers there."

You look down at your half-dressed body, feeling suddenly quite naked. "Right. Sorry." You pull a can of generic energy drink out of the fridge as you rush past it into your bedroom, cracking it open and chugging it down as you dig through drawers and hangers. "Feel free to help yourself to something if you'd like!" you call back into the room, almost in afterthought, mid-way through yanking a shirt over your head.

The lawyer, for his part, appears to have found your dining chair - and he is currently sitting in it, clutching his briefcase to his chest as a talisman of protective civilization, as if expecting something to leap out of the detritus and clutter at any given moment. "I'm fine, thank you," he responds at last - curt, perhaps, but polite. You can see where his training lies.

"So you said you're representing an estate?" you ask, hopping from one leg to another as you pull on a clean pair of pants. Where are your nice shoes?

"...Yes," Mr. Baxter answers slowly - pointedly avoiding looking in your direction, but evidently grateful to finally be talking business. "I represent the estate of one Mr. Harold Rossum, recently deceased."

"Who?" You try to plumb the depths of your mind as you dig through the bottom of your closet, looking for your dress shoes. You don't recall anyone by that name ever coming up, even in the lengthy "family stories" of your grandparents growing up.

"I am not surprised," the lawyer replies. "He was, at best, a distant relation. However, his estate was willed to family - and as he left no living ancestors nor any descendants, it has fallen to my office to locate living members of the Rossum line to fulfill his final wishes." He stands with barely-restrained relief as you once again enter the main room, pushing your hair into something resembling respectability with your fingers. "All I need to do now is show you what you will be claiming possession of and have you sign off on claiming it. Whenever you're ready."