[It had not been too difficult to find out where Paul lives. The fact that he works at the same place as Owen's grandson had certainly made it a lot easier. His windows also hadn't exactly been a challenge for Owen. They are nothing compared to John's high security windows that he likes to break in through for fun.
Inside, Owen had locked the cat in a room where it wouldn't bother him. There is no reason to hurt it - and to be honest, he really doesn't want to hurt it - but he doesn't want it to get in the way either.
He had spent way more time thinking about the cat than necessary, even considered taking it with him to make sure it would get a good home once Paul is dead. But ultimately, he decided that would just cause unnecessary trouble for him. He'll just let it out of the room to feast on the remains of its owner and then hope its new home will be a good one anyway. If he's lucky and the cat hasn't eaten in a while, maybe it will even start to feed on Paul while he's still aware of it.
But however this meeting will end, right now, Owen can't do anything but wait for his victim to come home from work. So he's killing time by standing in Paul's living room and heavily judging the books on his book shelf. He doesn't carry any visible weapons. He just stands there, looking at the bookshelf as if it was his own.]
*Paul slid in through his front door, locking it behind him with a soft hum and a clicking noise. Immediately it felt like something was wrong, at first he thought maybe it was the absence of Richie's shoes and favourite hoodie, no, he was at mascot practice. He glanced around a bit, no Mr. Whiskers. That's what it was. He wasn't jumping around at his feet for cuddles the moment he stepped in.
Oh Gods, he hoped he hadn't accidentally locked him in his bedroom again or something, he'd pissed on the rug last time and it was awful. Paul took his shoes off and placed them on their proper designated spot on the rack, doing the same with his coat. He pressed his hand to his mouth, whistling nice and loud and listening for the jingle of Mr. Whiskers' collar just in case he was sleeping or something. Nothing. Odd.
He sighed as he stepped further into his house, immediately heading for the kitchen to pull out the chicken he'd been marinating for supper. He didn't plan on cooking it right away, just needed it to sit out for a bit while he did some quick cleaning of the place. He grabbed a rag and his favourite rubber gloves, stuffing them in his pocket for when he actually got to scrubbing the place down.
What Paul didn't expect on his way to clean up the living room was a fully grown man, who looked a good bit like Ted, standing and staring at his bookshelf. Mildly shocked, and partially trying to scope out if this man was a threat, he chuckled.*
You an enjoyer of the classics too then?
*He gestured to the William Shakespeare, Arthur Conan Doyle, and Jane Austen sitting on the alphabetical sorted shelves.*
