Chapter 02: “Remember to be nice.”

Jeff wasn’t used to mornings without noise. No early city traffic. No distant hum of lawnmowers or barking dogs. Cornice Place was silent, eerily so. He sat on the couch, staring at the sailboat print on the wall, his third import of the morning sweating in his hand. His head throbbed slightly—remnants of last night’s overindulgence—but the quiet unsettled him more than the hangover.

The silence wasn’t peaceful; it was predatory. Even the faint hum of the refrigerator seemed too subdued, as if it didn’t dare draw attention to itself. Jeff ran his fingers over the damp beer bottle, the condensation trickling like cold sweat. For a building that looked like it had survived the ‘70s, Cornice Place was unnaturally still. Too clean. Too controlled.

He tipped back his beer, letting the bitterness coat his tongue. His gaze drifted to the bottle of water he’d thrown in the fridge the day before. It was still there, unopened. He grabbed it out of habit when he’d moved in, but every time he reached for it, his hand went to an import instead. “Hydration’s for rookies,” he muttered, then added, “But hey, imports are practically health food.”

Jeff didn’t believe his own bullshit, but it was the lie he needed to keep the gnawing edges of guilt at bay. Domestic beer was for alcoholics; he drank imports. Totally different league.

He stood, stretching, his joints crackling like old wood. Wandering to the window, he pulled the blinds back just enough to peek into the courtyard. The morning sunlight spilled over the patchy grass and crooked benches, but the light seemed too sharp, like someone had cranked the saturation up on reality. The birdbath, still leaning awkwardly, cast a long shadow that seemed out of proportion to its size. Nothing moved. Not a single leaf stirred.

Jeff shivered, though the room wasn’t cold, and turned toward the hallway. Locking the door behind him, he double-checked the bolt—an ingrained habit from years of police work. The hallway was dim, its shadows clinging stubbornly to the walls despite the sunlight outside. The air felt heavier here, and Jeff’s footsteps echoed faintly as he made his way toward the stairs.

Halfway down the exterior walkway, something caught his eye. A small metal sign bolted neatly to the wall at the corner. The lettering was bold and clean, etched in black against the brushed steel:

REMEMBER TO BE NICE.

Jeff frowned, stepping closer. The sign was unremarkable at first glance, but something about it felt off. Why would an apartment complex need signs like this? He reached out and ran his fingers over the cool surface. The edges were too sharp, too new. Beneath the lettering, faint scratches caught the light. Leaning in, he made out the words someone had etched into the metal:

“Or else.”

“Okay, then,” he muttered, shoving his hands into his jacket pockets and heading for the stairs.

The courtyard felt larger than it had the day before, though it wasn’t a trick of distance. It was the quiet—an oppressive, unnatural quiet that seemed to magnify every sound he made. His boots scraped against the concrete as he crossed the patchy grass, passing the crooked benches and leaning birdbath. Two women sat on one of the benches, their voices low and indistinct. They didn’t acknowledge him, though Jeff had the uneasy sense they were watching.

Near the black metal lockbox labeled “Rent,” another sign caught his eye:

REMEMBER TO BE NICE.

The words hung over the box like a passive-aggressive warning. The lockbox itself looked old but well-maintained, its edges smoothed from years of use. The slit at the top gaped slightly, like a mouth that couldn’t quite close. Beside it, a smaller sign read simply: Cash Only.

Jeff smirked. “Cash only, huh? Real modern.”

Wallace’s whistling drifted down from somewhere above, the tune shifting mid-melody like the man couldn’t commit to a song. Jeff shook his head and pushed through the iron gate. The clang of it shutting behind him echoed sharply, lingering longer than it should have.

His El Camino sat at the far end of the lot, gleaming black in the sunlight. It looked as out of place here as a tuxedo at a backyard barbecue. Jeff hated the car. He hated its shine, its cocky air of a life he no longer lived. Yet he couldn’t let it go. Not until he won something better. And that would happen. He was due. Any day now.

Sliding into the driver’s seat, Jeff let the engine roar to life. The sound was jarring against the unnatural quiet of Cornice Place, and for a moment, he thought about killing the engine just to make the noise stop. But then laughter floated across the courtyard. He glanced back to see the two women on the bench, their voices louder now.

“Nice car,” one of them called, her tone teasing but edged with something else.

Jeff waved half-heartedly, trying to ignore the weight of their stares. He gripped the steering wheel, knuckles whitening, as unease settled into his chest. Cornice Place wasn’t right. The signs, the quiet, the sterile cleanliness—it didn’t add up.

Grabbing his phone, he typed “Cornice Place Apartments” into the search bar. The usual listings popped up—rent prices, a few poorly lit photos. One review stood out:

“They don’t allow pets, and they mean it. Don’t try to sneak in a cat or a gerbil. Animals die around here.”

Jeff frowned, glancing back at the courtyard. No pets. No strays. Not even a damn squirrel.

The stereo erupted suddenly, the blaring static making him flinch and slap at the controls to kill the noise. When he looked back at the courtyard, one of the women was gone. The other was staring directly at him. Unblinking.

Adjusting the rearview mirror, he scanned the lot. No sign of her.

“You should watch your noise,” a voice said from the driver’s side window, startling him. Jeff turned sharply to find the missing woman standing there, too close, her face calm but her eyes sharp.

“What? I didn’t mean to—” he stammered, but she walked away before he could finish.

“Fucking opioids,” Jeff muttered as he pulled out of the lot, the iron gate closing behind him like the lid of a coffin.

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