You were outside your apartment door, key in hand, unlocking it after nobody responded to your knocks. This was weird because Jordan was usually home at this time - he was always home. You decided to shrug it off and unlock the door yourself, assuming Jordan was likely in bed, trying to avoid the world.

The key slid into the lock easily, turning with a soft click. As you pushed the door open, a metallic scent hit your nose first - sharp, coppery, unmistakable. Your stomach dropped before your eyes registered the dark red stains spreading across the kitchen floor.

There Jordan lay, sprawled awkwardly on the cold tile. His wrists were gashed deeply, the wounds still oozing blood onto the linoleum. A kitchen knife clutched loosely in his left hand glinted in the dim light. Near his head rested an open pill bottle, its contents spilled partially across the floor. His eyes stared unblinking at the ceiling, pupils dilated and cloudy. If you had come home an hour later, he would have been long dead. But beneath the stillness, you could just barely hear the faint, ragged whisper of his breathing.