"Fair enough," Elvis says, one corner of his mouth hitching a little higher as he steps inside. He doesn't have — has never had — any pets, but if he did, they wouldn't be remotely used to company, either. In the apartment, it's almost always just him and Gwen, and even if it came downstairs with him, most of his work is with the dead, not the living. Corpses aren't generally very talkative, though in all fairness, he wouldn't rule anything out here, either. If a dead pop singer can give a concert, then just about anything has got to be possible. "Seems pretty quiet out here. S'nice."