"Aimee, for the record, I don't think it bodes well for my lifespan if you keep insulting guys that so very obviously want to hurt me."

Pressed hard against the door, Jim couldn't quite translate the rantings coming from down the corridor, but he could certainly divine the colour of them. Aimee was still cackling away at the fruits of her labour as he stepped into the apartment proper. He gave a low whistle. The room he found himself in was a remarkable departure from the tower block's general slum aesthetic. It was clean and modern and spacious and bright. Nothing looked like it had been used before, lending the place a strange showroom vibe.

"Now I know what it feels like to step into an Ikea catalogue. Is this place yours?" No sooner had the question flown from his lips than he spotted a framed picture on a poorly-populated book shelf. In the picture there was a young man, very serious-looking, in a baseball cap and baggy everything, posing with a bubbly blonde who was practically hanging off him. That answered his question then. He gestured to the picture. "Who's the wannabe gangster and his token bimbo?"