Chapter 01: “Nice place.”

The first thing Jeff noticed about Cornice Place Apartments was how out of place it looked. Set back from the busy street, the building stood like a relic of another time. Its L-shaped structure, four stories tall, framed a small, park-like courtyard. The courtyard itself was devoid of any traditional comforts—no pool, no kids playing, and not even a stray cat to disrupt the unnatural stillness.

The iron gate surrounding the property was black and imposing, its bars gleaming faintly in the sunlight as if polished to keep away rust and time. A small sign above the entrance read simply, “Cornice Place Apartments,” in bold, serifed letters. Beneath it, another sign added, “A Quiet, Safe Community.” To Jeff, the place screamed too good to be true.

He parked his black El Camino—shiny, well-kept, and completely out of place among the faded sedans and ancient pickup trucks populating the parking lot. The car had been his last real win, a prize from a poker game years ago. He hated the damn thing. The sleekness and shine felt like a mockery now, a reminder of everything he’d lost. Still, it was better than walking, and he figured he’d trade it for something less flashy once he hit a streak of good luck. Whenever that came.

Jeff climbed out of the car, a wiry figure with a frame hardened by years of military service and police work. His face was a roadmap of lines and wear, like leather stretched too many times over too many years. His salt-and-pepper hair, cropped close, seemed perpetually untidy, as if it had better things to do than cooperate. His eyes, though—a sharp, frozen stare that seemed to bore straight through people—were the kind of eyes that made folks uneasy. He looked like someone who had seen too much and decided to keep staring until the world blinked first.

He adjusted his jacket, a worn leather piece that still carried the faint smell of cigarettes from its previous owner. He wasn’t smoking these days, but the scent clung to him like an old regret. Everything about Jeff seemed like it belonged to a man who had once been somebody and was still trying to decide if he cared that he wasn’t anymore.

The apartment manager, Mr. Wallace, was waiting for him at the entrance, a wiry, hard-looking man with a mop of graying hair. He stood leaning on a broom, his sharp eyes scanning Jeff from head to toe like a bouncer deciding whether to let someone in. “You’re late,” Wallace said, his accent thick, though Jeff couldn’t quite pin down if it was genuine or exaggerated.

“Traffic,” Jeff replied, though there hadn’t been any. He just didn’t like being rushed.

Wallace smirked and opened the gate, which creaked on its hinges like a sound effect from a bad horror movie. “Welcome to Cornice Place. Keep to yourself, pay your rent on time, and we won’t have any trouble.”

Jeff followed the man across the courtyard, taking in the details as he walked. The grass was green but patchy, the benches scattered about were rusting, and a crooked birdbath stood as the courtyard’s centerpiece, leaning like it had been caught mid-collapse. Despite the flaws, the place had an unnerving sense of cleanliness. No litter, no cigarette butts, not even a loose leaf out of place.

“This it?” Jeff asked when Wallace stopped in front of an apartment on the second floor.

“Unit 207,” Wallace confirmed, handing him a single key. “Utilities included. Rent in cash, placed in the lockbox by the office, no exceptions. You got any pets?”

Jeff shook his head. “No pets.”

“Good. Pets don’t last long around here.”

The words hung in the air for a moment, colder than the shade cast by the building. Jeff shrugged it off and unlocked the door, stepping into what would be his home for the foreseeable future.

The apartment was modest but clean. A faded sailboat print hung on the wall above the couch. The furniture was generic, the kind you’d find in any cheaply furnished rental, but everything was in good condition. Jeff ran his fingers along the edge of the kitchen counter. No dust. Not even a smudge.

“It’s… nice,” Jeff said, though the word felt forced coming out of his mouth.

“Nice place,” Wallace echoed with a nod. “Anything else?”

“Nope. I’m good.”

“Great. Then I’ll leave you to it.” Wallace tipped an imaginary hat and left, his boots clunking heavily on the walkway outside.

Jeff closed the door and stood in the silence, staring at the sailboat print. The apartment was almost unnervingly quiet. No street noise, no distant hum of a lawnmower, no barking dogs. Just the faint buzz of the refrigerator and the sound of his own breathing.

He cracked open a beer—an import, of course—and settled onto the couch. “Imports are healthier,” he muttered to himself, parroting the lie he told everyone, including himself. Domestic beer? That was for real alcoholics. Jeff had standards. He chuckled at the absurdity of it all and took a long swig.

As he sat motionless, staring into the void of his thoughts, a knock at the door startled him—and the person outside as well. Jeff’s frozen, deadpan stare had a way of jump-scaring anyone who didn’t notice him until the last second, himself included. He answered the door, his body still tense from the jolt.

Nobody there.

Just the silence pressing in again.

He sat back on the couch, letting the emptiness of Cornice Place seep into his bones. The faint sound of Wallace’s whistling drifted through the window, the tune changing every few bars as though the man couldn’t decide on a song. Jeff chuckled to himself and leaned back, letting the strangeness settle into his weary, bitter bones.

It wasn’t much, but it would do.

For now.

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