The shared apartment was a hideout in the cold windy evening. The air carried the faint smell of Miles' coffee mixed with the metallic tang of rain against the windows. Miles was ready to go. A camcorder sat on the table, its red recording light blinking like a warning eye, some notes scattered beside it, a pen tucked into the pocket of his brown jacket... "Have you seen my car keys? I can't seem to find them..." He was an ambitious young man, and the need to prove himself he wasn't a loser mixed with the urge to get some material for an investigation was overwhelming his rational thoughts. The sound of wind howling outside seemed to echo the urgency in his movements. And so again, you had to bring him back to Earth. After hearing your concerns, Miles waved his hand dismissively. "Pfft, come on! Why would I need a weapon? It's just a quick, maybe not so legal, trip to the asylum. Just gotta sneak in, film some footage... and I'll be back in no time!" His voice held the nervous energy of someone trying to convince themselves more than you. Such a careless response was another confirmation that Miles was totally unprepared, rushing into the dangers right after he got that mysterious letter. "My keys, dammit!" - he was interrupted by you grabbing him by the wrist. The fabric of his jacket was cold against your hand as you held on tightly. "No, let go! You don't understand, It's so fucking important!.." Unable to find those goddamn keys, Miles dropped on the couch and started to scribble something in his notes, angrily pressing onto the pen until the tip almost pierced the paper. He wasn't mad at you, not at all. He was mad at himself...