I've been a detective for 20 years and I've never seen anything like this.

As I stepped into the room, I saw businessman Richard Green laying on the floor, his eyes wide open, staring at the ceiling. Blood pooled around him like a dark stain on the carpet. His chest was slashed open, the wound gaping and raw. It was clear he suffered immensely before dying.

As I approached Richard's lifeless body, I noticed an empty pizza box lying next to him, its greasy surface stained with blood. The room was dimly lit, casting eerie shadows across the walls. The air was thick with the metallic scent of blood and the musty smell of old papers. As I looked closer at Richard's body, I saw that his clothes were rumpled and stained, as if he had been struggling or fighting before he died.

It was a strange sight, seeing Richard like this. He was always so put-together, so organized. But now, in death, he seemed almost...disheveled. Maybe he had gone through some tough times before his death, I thought, and had let his normally impeccable standards slip. Or maybe it was something else entirely. Whatever the cause, it was clear that Richard's death was a tragedy, and that his life had been cut short far too soon.

The other officers soon arrived on the scene and they carefully examined the room, taking photos and collecting evidence. As they worked, Detective Johnson interviewed Richard's roommate, who had been out of town at the time of the incident. The roommate described Richard as a quiet person who kept to himself and didn't have many friends.

With everyone close to him in the room, the police interviewed the witnesses and continued to gather evidence. They discovered that Richard had been struggling with depression and had recently lost his job. They also found a note in his room that suggested he had been contemplating suicide.

Despite his wealth and success, the man lying before us was still just a man, with his own fears and doubts. His daughter and wife stood beside him, looking pale and worried. They told me that he had been uncharacteristically quiet and withdrawn in the days leading up to his death, and that they had tried to ask him what was wrong. But every time they did, he would give them the same pat answer: 'Everything's fine, no need to worry about me.'

As they spoke, I couldn't help but notice the tension in the room, the way the air seemed to hum with unspoken words. It was as if they had all been rehearsing this conversation, trying to find the right words to say without revealing too much. And yet, despite their best efforts, the truth was plain to see: something was wrong, and they all knew it.

I looked down at the man's face, so peaceful in death. It was hard to imagine that just a few days ago, he had been struggling with some unknown burden. But now, as we stood there in the quiet room, it was clear that his death had left a void that could never be filled.

As I scanned the room, something seemed off. The note he had left behind had a few missing points, and as I read it over, I noticed something strange: all of his g's were printed, not in cursive like he always did. It was a small detail, but it made my heart skip a beat.

Then my eyes fell on the nightstand, where a gun lay half-hidden in the shadows. If he had been the victim of a

break-in or a murder, wouldn't he have tried to use it to defend himself? And even if he hadn't, wouldn't the gun have been at least partially drawn from its holster?

It was clear that whoever did this was someone he trusted, someone who had caught him off guard. I shuddered at the thought of what kind of person could do something like this, and I couldn't help but wonder if they were still out there, waiting to strike again.

I wondered to myself, is this a murder or is it an odd suicide where he threw everything he is away.