One day prisoner I

Mr. B is dead. It happened within twenty-four hours of him moving into this building.

Mr. B moved in last night, or to be precise, early this morning at midnight. The night was foggy, and two men in black accompanied him, carrying three large suitcases. They knocked on my door, where I was on duty, requesting to rent an unfurnished room. It was a strange request since most people prefer furnished rooms.

"How big of a room do you need?" I asked, looking at Mr. B's bald head. He wore glasses and had a pale, timid face that carried a hint of sorrow.

"One bedroom with a kitchen and a bathroom will do," one of the men in black said.

"I'm sorry, but wouldn't it be too cramped for three people to live in such a small room?" I replied.

The man in black remained expressionless and pointed at Mr. B, saying, "He will be the only one living here."

"Alright, how long would you like to rent it for? Six months or a year?" I asked Mr. B.

Mr. B whispered, "Just one day..."

"What?" I couldn't hear him clearly.

The man in black said, "Let's rent it for a month. Is that the shortest lease term you have?"

"Yes," I replied, taking out the registration book for Mr. B to write his name. The man in black paid a month's rent, and then I accompanied them to the elevator, up to the small suite on the 16th floor of the building.

Mr. B seemed satisfied with the living room but complained about the narrow view from the house. The men in black remained cold and silent as they opened the large suitcases. To my surprise, they were filled with makeshift furniture—foldable canvas wardrobes, inflatable mattresses, and some clothes for changing. Finally, Mr. B settled in, and one of the men in black glanced at his watch and said, "It's August 18th now, exactly midnight."

The two men in black left, and I said to Mr. B, "Rest well, and I hope you have a pleasant stay here."

He nodded and said, "Yes, pleasant... I won't bother you for long."

"What did you say?" I didn't catch it.

For a moment, weakness and longing appeared in his eyes, as if he wanted to say something. I was taken aback. But he quickly returned to his usual state, that timid and sorrowful expression.

"Thank you for your help. Please let me rest," he politely ushered me out of the door.

That's how I remember last night.

Only twenty-something hours later, Mr. B was found dead in the room. He looked withered and much older after his passing.

The two men in black entered the building through the fog, accompanied by someone who looked like a doctor. I still don't understand how they knew about Mr. B's death. When they asked me to open the door to the room and found Mr. B lifeless on the floor of the living room, they showed no surprise. The doctor walked over, opened Mr. B's eyelids, felt his neck, and then turned to nod at the two men in black.

"He's dead."

They wanted to lift Mr. B's body, but I stood in the doorway and said, "Wait, I should call the police. Besides, I didn't even realize he was dead. How did you know?"

One of the men in black approached me and said in a low voice, "There's no need to call the police." He showed me an identification document that left no room for doubt about its authority.

I fell silent.

To be continued