Crouching atop the roof of a building, he surveyed the area. It was dark and quiet, void of life. Behind him, two others crouched, shrouded in black, melting into the night. There was no one to be seen, no one to see them. Then again, there never was. They remained in silence for a few moments, listening to the sounds of the night. The sounds of far-off cars, the chirping of crickets, the occasional clang of the pipes in the building below them. Then the first one made a motion with his hand and the trio jumped, landing softly on the ground below without making a sound. If anyone had been watching they would have been shocked at this, the jump was high enough to kill any human. But these weren't humans. No, not at all. The trio was now moving towards the first apartment block, approaching the doors which led to the stairs, which led to the 4th floor, where there was a white door like every single other white door in the building, a white door with the name 'Helen Kingston' printed neatly onto a card above the mail slot. This white door would soon be broken open, the neat name card broken with it, bright yellow police tape taking over its job of blocking the entrance to the apartment, becoming a subject of conversation and speculation for the curious neighbours. But at the moment it remained in one piece, closing off the entrance to the apartment where Helen Kingston lived.