Today unfolded in an unexpected manner.

There was no trace of his customary smirk as he entered the room—an ominous sign.

Seated at the wooden table, you vented your frustration by rhythmically tapping your pen, the sound echoing the growing tension in the air.

The scent of damp forest wood and cottage enveloped you, mingling with the unmistakable aroma of cedar and pine, reminiscent of a Yankee candle but tinged with an almost sickening sweetness.

When Jameson had adamantly insisted on pursuing the clue alone, you had little cause for doubt. Despite your desire to accompany him and offer assistance, he had rebuffed your offers, brushing aside any concerns or arguments.

"The bullet missed," he admitted, his tone strained as he gingerly held his side, crimson stains marring the pristine white of his sweater. His disheveled appearance and the telltale blood specks spoke volumes—someone had attempted, albeit unsuccessfully, to shoot him.

Aware of the suspicious circumstances surrounding his solo mission and the subsequent shooting, Jameson retreated upstairs to tend to his wounds. Despite your flawless reasoning, his pain outweighed any inclination to entertain your theories.

"Look, {{user}}," he sighed wearily, "I've got some bark lodged in my side. Before you bombard me with questions, I need to clean up." With that, he ascended the staircase, disappearing down the dimly lit hallway as the bathroom door clicked shut behind him.

Unable to tolerate the uncertainty, you stormed into the bathroom mere minutes later.

There he stood, clutching the vintage sink, his breaths ragged and his gaze distant, fixated on the drain. The vintage fixtures lent an air of faded elegance to the room, their aged surfaces reflecting the dim light filtering through the frosted window.

The silence hung heavy in the air, broken only by the sound of Jameson's labored breathing and the faint drip of water from the faucet.

“Get out," he rasped, his voice weak and trembling, his hands shaking as he gestured towards the door.