We stand outside the apartment, and the door looms in front of us. It's lit up with blue and red lights from our car.

So, this is what? A wellness check? I asked Jim. Jim shrugs, then adjusts his stab-proof best.

I think we might be in for a suicide. Hopefully it's not a messy one, he answers. He then

sighs and inserts the key we got from the landlord. It clicks and we open the door. The light from

outside flows inside the apartment. Mr. Miles? Jim calls. Hello? Police.

There's no answer and no shuffling about either.

Not a hint of life.

Jim looks at me and shrugs.

I start walking in, taking the speaking roll this time.

We're here for a wellness check, Mr. Miles.

We just want to talk and make sure

you're all right. Then we'll be on our way. Again, not a sound. The only noise in this apartment is us.

Our heavy boots clump on the wooden floor, the sound echoing around the entrance hallway.

It makes the apartment feel very empty and lifeless.

I at least have a little hope that there's no corpse in here. I can't smell anything unusual.

It smells like a regular apartment, just a little musty with a hint of bacon in the air.

You never forget the smell of a human corpse, and this clearly isn't that.

So perhaps we're not in for a horrible suicide after all. Perhaps he's just not here. We walk

through the entrance hallway, and despite several closed doors around us, we head towards the

living room, since that's already open.

Mr. Miles?

I call out.

...