Encounterlogs
Miless Odd Encounter Sr Crystal 240304
Miles finds himself in an eerie, nondescript office space of an apartment on Elm Street, setting the scene for a peculiar encounter. Amidst the cold, unsettling ambiance and the faint, inexplicable smells of bread baking, his attention is drawn to fluctuating temperatures on a thermostat and the sudden presence of a feminine voice filled with contempt. The voice, mistaking him for someone named Austin, oscillates between venomous hate and bizarre affection. As the situation escalates, Miles, a deputy, maintains his composure, attempting to navigate the encounter with a blend of caution and empathy, despite the room's chilling atmosphere and the woman's erratic behavior.
The story takes a poignant turn as Miles, compelled to play along with the spirit's delusion, expresses a heartfelt apology and seeks mutual forgiveness, hitting an emotional chord with the apparition. This exchange catalyzes a transformation in the spirit, from anger to a somber resolution, allowing her to find the peace she was denied in life. The once menacing presence, misconstrued identity, and tragic backstory converge in a moment of spectral release as the supernaturally charged atmosphere dissipates, leaving Miles alone with the remnants of a sorrowful tale wrapped in the mundane reality of an unassuming apartment, haunted by the unresolved grief of its previous occupant.
(Miles's odd encounter(SRCrystal):SRCrystal)
[Sun Mar 3 2024]
In the dark office space of Apartment 101, Elm Street
This room is threadbare, plain white walls and uncovered wooden flooring that squeaks underfoot. A closet in the corner suggests that this was intended to be a bedroom; however, the windowless area has been converted into an esoteric home office. Some clutter of paper and photos is stacked atop the desk with a budget computer and a monitor with the brightness level all the way down. In the back of the room, a pentacle has been scratched into the wooden floor -- enough damage to violate the renter's deposit on the property.
A mirror covered in a dark sheet stands in the corner next to the pentacle.
It is before dawn, about 29F(-1C) degrees, and the sky is covered by dark grey stormclouds. There is a last quarter moon.
(Your target is possessed by an angry spirit that is forcing them to act out and putting themselves and/or others at risk. They must either defeat it or find a way to calm it down.
)
Just before dawn, and Haven is as cold as ever. Snow quietly drifts off outside the windows of the dark office space of the apartment, promising that the cold will definitely not let up so soon in spite of Spring quickly approaching to trade places in the seasonal rotation. So it goes without saying that Miles may not even notice the shift in temperature -- growing just a tiny bit colder. Or even the soft noises rustling outside. The crunching. It could be nothing, what with the apartment complex being right at a forest's proximity, residents inside of the complex are probably used to hearing such things.
Thankfully Miles has some experience with the cold, and further more? He's at least dressed for it. The heavy coat is pulled close about him as he glances around the apartment study. It isn't his own apartment, but rather a friends. A friend whom he'd promised some assistance working on. She's back at his place now, no doubt, using his shower. Because this strange little flat was lacking a bathroom. The fellow is more distracted by nosily going over the various documents, and trinkets left in the room by it's previous owner.
If there's a thermostat anywhere around the office space, it'd be blinking, the number on the display starting to shift up and down, unable to decide what the temperature for the day is. It blinks up, which does not make sense as it's definitely growing colder, though someone used to chilly days and nights on end wouldn't even pick up on that, especially if they're dressed for braving the chillier elements. But Miles's is here in some small office space, only minutely familiar with the place. There might even be a very good reason the apartment lacks a bathroom in the first place.
*Squeak* *Squeak* That isn't the sound of a curious mouse, but more of the scuff of shoes on the uncovered wooden flooring. The place even starts to pick up a peculiar smell -- smells like bread baking in the oven.
Mmmm. Yeasty.
The beeping draws Miles's attention, as might be expected, and the deputy ends up abandoning his efforts at rifling through documents, and details in order to seek out the source of it. He wanders over towards the thermostat, and stares at it. It's numbers blink up. They blink down. There's a widening of Miles's eyes. He knows what this is..
"This apartment is a bloody piece of shit." Miles surmises, shaking his head and stepping away from the apparently faulty device. Though the squeak of shoes on wood catches his attention in short enough order, and he turns back toward the door, "Lydia?" The name of the new owner of the place escapes his lips. But, she'd surely be asleep by now, right?
And then the floorboards start groan out, creaking close by. It's a tried and true classic, not one to be outdone by any faulty thermostat. The noise is something anyone who has stayed in Haven is pretty familiar with. The floorboards in town have a reputation for being pretty creaky and attention seeking at the most random moments. Except this time it precedes the voice of someone that is probably not recognizable to Miles's ears. "Of course you'd be crawling back," the voice mutters in discontent, clearly very unhappy. Maybe they do not appreciate the unannounced visitor snooping around. What Miles might be able to pick up is that the voice sounds pretty feminine under that biting contempt. It sounds quite close to Miles, like it was speaking right into his ears. "Lydia?" She, or it breathes out, followed by a scoff. "You really are a piece of work, aren't you... tin?"
Thankfully, despite being a member of an American police force, Miles isn't triggered by noises and creaks. Whether it be floorboards, doors or acorns hitting the roof of his vehicle. The fellow clears his throat, ensuring his badge is nice and visible on his belt before shifting over towards the office door and dragging it open. He's got a whole little speech prepared for whomever this poor woman is. 'The place has been sold. Sorry about the change. Yadda yadda. Please surrender your key. Etc, etc.'
The voice may've sounded like it had come from right close to Miles, but it wouldn't be the first time he'd encounter some strange acoustics in the town.
Out of all of the -tins that Miles could have thought of, he still was somewhat short off the mark. The specific -tin the voice speaks of is made clear pretty soon, at least, so as not to leave Miles in suspense. "I really don't know what I saw in you, Austin. We've been through this so many times, why do you keep coming back to Haven?" The feminine voice rants, venomous contempt building in its ire. It's reaching a boiling point, whatever it is - its patience has been wearing thin, or it hasn't had much patience to begin with.
The door that Miles tries to open catches, as if fighting him from opening it, but the struggle is short-lived, and the door opens, revealing who this voice might belong to.
It laughs when it sees Miles, white eyes without any other color widening in disbelief. "Uniform? That's not going to work on me, I'm not into that anymore," she informs Miles. She has dark hair, pale eyes, and is wearing a long bathrobe that encompasses a pretty lean frame. She's a good head or two shorter than the deputy, but she does not seem to care about any physical differences in her bid to usher him out. Her hair is heavy with dampness, and she holds a rolling pin in one hand, gripped with short nails in need of a new paint of polish. The room gets colder now. "Get out," she urges, sounding like her one and final warning before the ante is upped.
"Austin." Miles echoes the name both verbally, and in his head, adding the name to the ongoing list of -tin names in his mind. You know, just in case he ends up in this very situation again. There's something about the venom being spat forth by the voice that has prickles dancing along the back of his neck. That sensation only grows when the door remains stack. One problem? That's typical. Two? This is Haventown, baby. Three in a row? Well, Miles is well aware of the rule of threes. There's a power there. Through the collective unconscious if not some other sort of external force.
The door being stuck? That's the third problem, and this one isn't excused away with some mundane reasoning. When the door is dragged open, after fighting against him, whatever planned speech he might've had is tossed to the wayside. The deputies keen green gaze ticks over the woman, taking her in. He isn't just look at her, he's looking at what she's wearing, listening to how she speaks. I mean, the eyes stand out as well, obviously.
There's a mild attempt to date the design of the bathrobe as Miles raises his hands, the classic sign of, 'I'm not dangerous, so let's not fight'.
"I'm going to do exactly that, I'm going to get out, alright? Not Austin, but I am getting out.."
Tthe only thing that SRCrystal is missing that would make the angry woman a truly, truly terrible force to be reckoned with is if she had some rollers curled in her hair. And maybe a face mask over her face for some skin care, so Miles does have that going for him in the face of such adversity. What she makes up for such is her spirit -- literally. The man who she sees before her isn't Miles, but someone she knows confidently as Austin. "Austin," she breathes out, her tone suddenly changing. The scathing venom dripping from her voice recedes, now replaced by remorse, turned on a dime, easy as that. Something that Miles has done has shifted her gears. The color returns in her eyes -- they're dark brown. They could be black in the lighting. But now her eyebrows lift worrying when Miles starts to accede to her demands. Like she was bluffing, or she's just incredibly needy.
It'd be impossible to tell right now, but if Miles was insistent on finding out the make of those light blue bathrobes, he might find somewhere that notes them from Amazon. Amazon Essentials even. But that'd be pretty hard to gauge right now. She steps forward, hand held out to try and touch Miles's face. "I didn't mean all that, I was just trying..." she tries to explain, suddenly sounding pretty infatuated. "Didn't think you'd actually come back," she fumbles with her words, happy as can be.
Amazon Essentials? So this is a classy dame.
Miles isn't a ritualist, or a magician, or even a wizard. The man's never cast a spell in his life, though he has seen magic worked. Despite this, it becomes readily apparent to the man that there is some sort of magic afoot, whether is be a spirit, or a spell, or another s-word- sorcery! A sorcery. It doesn't matter. What does matter, is that he doesn't want to end up as another in a surprisingly and worrying long list of dead Special Deputies in this town.
"..Right." The word slips from Miles's lips with a somewhat nervous quiver to it, and he clears his throat. A mild grimace catches at his lips as the woman reaches for his face, but he does his best not to flinch away. "Right, no. That is how it goes sometimes when we get all out of shape, isn't it? We say things we don't mean, do things we regret." The man relates back to this strange woman, "Like asking someone to leave. Or leaving in the first place."
"I didn't mean all that," SRCrystal croons in a placative manner, her harsh visage softening when she is able to make 'contact' with Miles's face. Once upon a time, that palm would have been warm and welcoming, but now there's hardly anything there for her to give, save for the ephemeral chill that radiates from her person -- hand now trying to brush at the man's cheek. "I don't really care who Lydia is. Or was. You being here must mean something else, right?" She endeavors, hope in her cool tone that's warming up. The air around the two starts to warm from the unnatural chill permeating the place, but then it drops right back down when an insistent, "/Right?/" is thrown into Miles's face. "Tell me why you're back here, Austin," she urges in a pleading tone. It's grown quite needy, full of want. "Tell me why you're here," the urge repeats, darker in its intent, though the warmth that the woman now harbors for Miles holds it back from the oppressive energy from overtaking her, and probably Miles. She clearly wants to hear something out of the man, even if it may or may not be the truth.
"I didn't mean all that," she croons in a placative manner, her harsh visage softening when she is able to make 'contact' with Miles's face. Once upon a time, that palm would have been warm and welcoming, but now there's hardly anything there for her to give, save for the ephemeral chill that radiates from her person -- hand now trying to brush at the man's cheek. "I don't really care who Lydia is. Or was. You being here must mean something else, right?" She endeavors, hope in her cool tone that's warming up. The air around the two starts to warm from the unnatural chill permeating the place, but then it drops right back down when an insistent, "/Right?/" is thrown into Miles's face. "Tell me why you're back here, Austin," she urges in a pleading tone. It's grown quite needy, full of want. "Tell me why you're here," the urge repeats, darker in its intent, though the warmth that the woman now harbors for Miles holds it back from the oppressive energy from overtaking her, and probably Miles. She clearly wants to hear something out of the man, even if it may or may not be the truth.
A lump forms in Miles's throat as he's drawn into this tale, into this story. His gaze flickers over the woman's features, and he swallows it down, taking a long breath in through his nose, and exhaling softly. A calming exercise. Something he'd learned during couples therapy, years ago. Strange that those thoughts come prickling to the surface, like an unwelcome guest.
It's that insistant 'right' that threatens to belay some of the empathy that lingers in Miles's features as he studies the woman. "Right." The man echoes, despite this, brow furrowing and mind working overtime. He takes a shot in the dark, "I'm here.. to forgive you, and to seek my own forgiveness, in turn. For the leaving. For the staying away. For returning now."
What traces of crazed mania lingering in the spiritual woman's face has all but stayed, replaced by a look of longing and relief. A smile becomes the light in the darkness she possessed, and the hand that can't feel Miles slips away, the rolling pin that was to be used as some sort of weapon of retribution slipping from transient fingers that are quickly losing their shape, cohesion. Her figure starts to shrink, growing more and more meek, her arms slinging about herself in a self embrace. Head bowed, her smile is maintained as she steps forward. Steps into Miles and past him.
"That's all I wanted to hear, you know," her voice calmly resonates in the room. Once her incorporeal form is behind him, she shifts into something else. The bathrobe is bloodied, a revolver slipping from her fingers, where a more innocent weapon once was. Her eyes are shut in a mirror image of the peace her body had in death, but the cold pall that has invaded the small office space abruptly shifts into something more -- mundane. Any efforts to locate the troubled visitor would be meant for naught, but any traces left of the place, of its previous tenants would bring some context. A suicide, and HSD's personnel covering it up as an accident. Messy documentation means the exact date is fuzzy, only that it happened some time at the start of 2024.
The story takes a poignant turn as Miles, compelled to play along with the spirit's delusion, expresses a heartfelt apology and seeks mutual forgiveness, hitting an emotional chord with the apparition. This exchange catalyzes a transformation in the spirit, from anger to a somber resolution, allowing her to find the peace she was denied in life. The once menacing presence, misconstrued identity, and tragic backstory converge in a moment of spectral release as the supernaturally charged atmosphere dissipates, leaving Miles alone with the remnants of a sorrowful tale wrapped in the mundane reality of an unassuming apartment, haunted by the unresolved grief of its previous occupant.
(Miles's odd encounter(SRCrystal):SRCrystal)
[Sun Mar 3 2024]
In the dark office space of Apartment 101, Elm Street
This room is threadbare, plain white walls and uncovered wooden flooring that squeaks underfoot. A closet in the corner suggests that this was intended to be a bedroom; however, the windowless area has been converted into an esoteric home office. Some clutter of paper and photos is stacked atop the desk with a budget computer and a monitor with the brightness level all the way down. In the back of the room, a pentacle has been scratched into the wooden floor -- enough damage to violate the renter's deposit on the property.
A mirror covered in a dark sheet stands in the corner next to the pentacle.
It is before dawn, about 29F(-1C) degrees, and the sky is covered by dark grey stormclouds. There is a last quarter moon.
(Your target is possessed by an angry spirit that is forcing them to act out and putting themselves and/or others at risk. They must either defeat it or find a way to calm it down.
)
Just before dawn, and Haven is as cold as ever. Snow quietly drifts off outside the windows of the dark office space of the apartment, promising that the cold will definitely not let up so soon in spite of Spring quickly approaching to trade places in the seasonal rotation. So it goes without saying that Miles may not even notice the shift in temperature -- growing just a tiny bit colder. Or even the soft noises rustling outside. The crunching. It could be nothing, what with the apartment complex being right at a forest's proximity, residents inside of the complex are probably used to hearing such things.
Thankfully Miles has some experience with the cold, and further more? He's at least dressed for it. The heavy coat is pulled close about him as he glances around the apartment study. It isn't his own apartment, but rather a friends. A friend whom he'd promised some assistance working on. She's back at his place now, no doubt, using his shower. Because this strange little flat was lacking a bathroom. The fellow is more distracted by nosily going over the various documents, and trinkets left in the room by it's previous owner.
If there's a thermostat anywhere around the office space, it'd be blinking, the number on the display starting to shift up and down, unable to decide what the temperature for the day is. It blinks up, which does not make sense as it's definitely growing colder, though someone used to chilly days and nights on end wouldn't even pick up on that, especially if they're dressed for braving the chillier elements. But Miles's is here in some small office space, only minutely familiar with the place. There might even be a very good reason the apartment lacks a bathroom in the first place.
*Squeak* *Squeak* That isn't the sound of a curious mouse, but more of the scuff of shoes on the uncovered wooden flooring. The place even starts to pick up a peculiar smell -- smells like bread baking in the oven.
Mmmm. Yeasty.
The beeping draws Miles's attention, as might be expected, and the deputy ends up abandoning his efforts at rifling through documents, and details in order to seek out the source of it. He wanders over towards the thermostat, and stares at it. It's numbers blink up. They blink down. There's a widening of Miles's eyes. He knows what this is..
"This apartment is a bloody piece of shit." Miles surmises, shaking his head and stepping away from the apparently faulty device. Though the squeak of shoes on wood catches his attention in short enough order, and he turns back toward the door, "Lydia?" The name of the new owner of the place escapes his lips. But, she'd surely be asleep by now, right?
And then the floorboards start groan out, creaking close by. It's a tried and true classic, not one to be outdone by any faulty thermostat. The noise is something anyone who has stayed in Haven is pretty familiar with. The floorboards in town have a reputation for being pretty creaky and attention seeking at the most random moments. Except this time it precedes the voice of someone that is probably not recognizable to Miles's ears. "Of course you'd be crawling back," the voice mutters in discontent, clearly very unhappy. Maybe they do not appreciate the unannounced visitor snooping around. What Miles might be able to pick up is that the voice sounds pretty feminine under that biting contempt. It sounds quite close to Miles, like it was speaking right into his ears. "Lydia?" She, or it breathes out, followed by a scoff. "You really are a piece of work, aren't you... tin?"
Thankfully, despite being a member of an American police force, Miles isn't triggered by noises and creaks. Whether it be floorboards, doors or acorns hitting the roof of his vehicle. The fellow clears his throat, ensuring his badge is nice and visible on his belt before shifting over towards the office door and dragging it open. He's got a whole little speech prepared for whomever this poor woman is. 'The place has been sold. Sorry about the change. Yadda yadda. Please surrender your key. Etc, etc.'
The voice may've sounded like it had come from right close to Miles, but it wouldn't be the first time he'd encounter some strange acoustics in the town.
Out of all of the -tins that Miles could have thought of, he still was somewhat short off the mark. The specific -tin the voice speaks of is made clear pretty soon, at least, so as not to leave Miles in suspense. "I really don't know what I saw in you, Austin. We've been through this so many times, why do you keep coming back to Haven?" The feminine voice rants, venomous contempt building in its ire. It's reaching a boiling point, whatever it is - its patience has been wearing thin, or it hasn't had much patience to begin with.
The door that Miles tries to open catches, as if fighting him from opening it, but the struggle is short-lived, and the door opens, revealing who this voice might belong to.
It laughs when it sees Miles, white eyes without any other color widening in disbelief. "Uniform? That's not going to work on me, I'm not into that anymore," she informs Miles. She has dark hair, pale eyes, and is wearing a long bathrobe that encompasses a pretty lean frame. She's a good head or two shorter than the deputy, but she does not seem to care about any physical differences in her bid to usher him out. Her hair is heavy with dampness, and she holds a rolling pin in one hand, gripped with short nails in need of a new paint of polish. The room gets colder now. "Get out," she urges, sounding like her one and final warning before the ante is upped.
"Austin." Miles echoes the name both verbally, and in his head, adding the name to the ongoing list of -tin names in his mind. You know, just in case he ends up in this very situation again. There's something about the venom being spat forth by the voice that has prickles dancing along the back of his neck. That sensation only grows when the door remains stack. One problem? That's typical. Two? This is Haventown, baby. Three in a row? Well, Miles is well aware of the rule of threes. There's a power there. Through the collective unconscious if not some other sort of external force.
The door being stuck? That's the third problem, and this one isn't excused away with some mundane reasoning. When the door is dragged open, after fighting against him, whatever planned speech he might've had is tossed to the wayside. The deputies keen green gaze ticks over the woman, taking her in. He isn't just look at her, he's looking at what she's wearing, listening to how she speaks. I mean, the eyes stand out as well, obviously.
There's a mild attempt to date the design of the bathrobe as Miles raises his hands, the classic sign of, 'I'm not dangerous, so let's not fight'.
"I'm going to do exactly that, I'm going to get out, alright? Not Austin, but I am getting out.."
Tthe only thing that SRCrystal is missing that would make the angry woman a truly, truly terrible force to be reckoned with is if she had some rollers curled in her hair. And maybe a face mask over her face for some skin care, so Miles does have that going for him in the face of such adversity. What she makes up for such is her spirit -- literally. The man who she sees before her isn't Miles, but someone she knows confidently as Austin. "Austin," she breathes out, her tone suddenly changing. The scathing venom dripping from her voice recedes, now replaced by remorse, turned on a dime, easy as that. Something that Miles has done has shifted her gears. The color returns in her eyes -- they're dark brown. They could be black in the lighting. But now her eyebrows lift worrying when Miles starts to accede to her demands. Like she was bluffing, or she's just incredibly needy.
It'd be impossible to tell right now, but if Miles was insistent on finding out the make of those light blue bathrobes, he might find somewhere that notes them from Amazon. Amazon Essentials even. But that'd be pretty hard to gauge right now. She steps forward, hand held out to try and touch Miles's face. "I didn't mean all that, I was just trying..." she tries to explain, suddenly sounding pretty infatuated. "Didn't think you'd actually come back," she fumbles with her words, happy as can be.
Amazon Essentials? So this is a classy dame.
Miles isn't a ritualist, or a magician, or even a wizard. The man's never cast a spell in his life, though he has seen magic worked. Despite this, it becomes readily apparent to the man that there is some sort of magic afoot, whether is be a spirit, or a spell, or another s-word- sorcery! A sorcery. It doesn't matter. What does matter, is that he doesn't want to end up as another in a surprisingly and worrying long list of dead Special Deputies in this town.
"..Right." The word slips from Miles's lips with a somewhat nervous quiver to it, and he clears his throat. A mild grimace catches at his lips as the woman reaches for his face, but he does his best not to flinch away. "Right, no. That is how it goes sometimes when we get all out of shape, isn't it? We say things we don't mean, do things we regret." The man relates back to this strange woman, "Like asking someone to leave. Or leaving in the first place."
"I didn't mean all that," SRCrystal croons in a placative manner, her harsh visage softening when she is able to make 'contact' with Miles's face. Once upon a time, that palm would have been warm and welcoming, but now there's hardly anything there for her to give, save for the ephemeral chill that radiates from her person -- hand now trying to brush at the man's cheek. "I don't really care who Lydia is. Or was. You being here must mean something else, right?" She endeavors, hope in her cool tone that's warming up. The air around the two starts to warm from the unnatural chill permeating the place, but then it drops right back down when an insistent, "/Right?/" is thrown into Miles's face. "Tell me why you're back here, Austin," she urges in a pleading tone. It's grown quite needy, full of want. "Tell me why you're here," the urge repeats, darker in its intent, though the warmth that the woman now harbors for Miles holds it back from the oppressive energy from overtaking her, and probably Miles. She clearly wants to hear something out of the man, even if it may or may not be the truth.
"I didn't mean all that," she croons in a placative manner, her harsh visage softening when she is able to make 'contact' with Miles's face. Once upon a time, that palm would have been warm and welcoming, but now there's hardly anything there for her to give, save for the ephemeral chill that radiates from her person -- hand now trying to brush at the man's cheek. "I don't really care who Lydia is. Or was. You being here must mean something else, right?" She endeavors, hope in her cool tone that's warming up. The air around the two starts to warm from the unnatural chill permeating the place, but then it drops right back down when an insistent, "/Right?/" is thrown into Miles's face. "Tell me why you're back here, Austin," she urges in a pleading tone. It's grown quite needy, full of want. "Tell me why you're here," the urge repeats, darker in its intent, though the warmth that the woman now harbors for Miles holds it back from the oppressive energy from overtaking her, and probably Miles. She clearly wants to hear something out of the man, even if it may or may not be the truth.
A lump forms in Miles's throat as he's drawn into this tale, into this story. His gaze flickers over the woman's features, and he swallows it down, taking a long breath in through his nose, and exhaling softly. A calming exercise. Something he'd learned during couples therapy, years ago. Strange that those thoughts come prickling to the surface, like an unwelcome guest.
It's that insistant 'right' that threatens to belay some of the empathy that lingers in Miles's features as he studies the woman. "Right." The man echoes, despite this, brow furrowing and mind working overtime. He takes a shot in the dark, "I'm here.. to forgive you, and to seek my own forgiveness, in turn. For the leaving. For the staying away. For returning now."
What traces of crazed mania lingering in the spiritual woman's face has all but stayed, replaced by a look of longing and relief. A smile becomes the light in the darkness she possessed, and the hand that can't feel Miles slips away, the rolling pin that was to be used as some sort of weapon of retribution slipping from transient fingers that are quickly losing their shape, cohesion. Her figure starts to shrink, growing more and more meek, her arms slinging about herself in a self embrace. Head bowed, her smile is maintained as she steps forward. Steps into Miles and past him.
"That's all I wanted to hear, you know," her voice calmly resonates in the room. Once her incorporeal form is behind him, she shifts into something else. The bathrobe is bloodied, a revolver slipping from her fingers, where a more innocent weapon once was. Her eyes are shut in a mirror image of the peace her body had in death, but the cold pall that has invaded the small office space abruptly shifts into something more -- mundane. Any efforts to locate the troubled visitor would be meant for naught, but any traces left of the place, of its previous tenants would bring some context. A suicide, and HSD's personnel covering it up as an accident. Messy documentation means the exact date is fuzzy, only that it happened some time at the start of 2024.