“When are you finally going to start talking?” hisses the inspector, her voice sharp and agitated. Her shirt is unbuttoned at the collar, two buttons loose, as though the fleeting promise of an evening off is now nothing but a distant, unreachable memory. “Seventeen minutes—utter silence. Is this all a game to you?”


    How I wish I could see it that way, wish I could simply wake up in my room and dismiss everything that’s happened as a terrible dream. A cruel joke that never truly happened.


    “Four dead boys were found tonight!” she shouts, her fist slamming onto the table with a startling sound. Her dark brown hair is tied into a tight ponytail, and I can hardly imagine how she’s managed to maintain this composure after so many hours on duty. But her gaze—sharp as a blade—pierces me, unrelenting. It’s as if she could see through me entirely, though I wonder if, without the glasses perched on her nose, the details she seeks would blur into meaninglessness. “How could you do this to those four boys? How did you manage to overpower them?”


    Her words ricochet off me like bullets dissipating mid-air, finding no target. They fail to penetrate, intercepted by an invisible barrier that lets them shatter harmlessly before they reach me. My eyes drift to the clock on the wall opposite us. It hangs high, behind a grid, its face a silent witness to time slipping away—for her, for me.


    In this moment, we are the same.


    My gaze lowers to my wrists, bound by handcuffs that anchor me to this place. The room is silent, save for the rhythmic ticking of the clock, a relentless beat cutting through the oppressive stillness. It sounds like the heartbeat of a lurking monster, growing louder as I retreat further into myself. Like the clock, I am enclosed in an invisible cage—one that grips me from within, that suffocates me. There’s a tightness in my chest, like I’m floating on the surface of a vast ocean while chains at my back drag me down into the depths with merciless force.


    “Matthew Lee, Elias Amirmoez, Gillian Schmidt, and Navid Irvani!” she says, her voice slicing through the room like a cold blade. Those names are not unknown to me. A sharp pain shoots through my heart, almost physical in its intensity. I blink, trying to endure the ache, and meet the piercing dark blue eyes of the woman across from me. There’s something in her expression I can’t quite grasp—patience? Resolve? Compassion? Maybe it’s only my imagination, but in this moment, I catch a flicker of hope.


    “You were found in a room with those four boys! Don’t you want to at least try to prove your innocence? Are you just going to accept that you’re the prime suspect in this case? What will your parents think?” she asks sharply, her words landing like a resounding slap.


    My parents! I’d forgotten them completely. How could I? Are they already on their way here? Or are they waiting outside, in this cold, faceless world where I now find myself? Will they be disappointed in me? The bitter taste of guilt lingers on my tongue as my head swims with questions. What have I done to end up here? Was it my attempt to fix everything that only made things worse? Did I lead myself into this abyss? Or was this path always fated for me—a path I was never meant to walk?Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.


    The rattle of the cuffs pulls my attention downward again. The bloodstains on my fingernails catch my eye, stark and accusing, and I see the dried blood on my clothes—a grim reminder of something past. Time feels eternal in this moment. The images of the boys—their faces once full of life and laughter—fade, replaced by the panic I saw in their eyes before death claimed them. The fear in their gaze as they met their end. But was that truly their fate, or did their choices lead them into this deadly snare?


    “This is pointless,” the inspector hisses, yanking me harshly back to reality. A sharp pull from the void into these sterile, frigid walls. Back into this cold room, this hard, unforgiving chair where countless other “guilty” people have sat before me. “I’m not wasting another minute on you. You’ll face your reckoning in court.”


    With a final jerk, she grabs the file from the table and tucks it under her arm. The cup in her other hand steams faintly, the rising vapor a relentless reminder of the present. In that moment, the warm, heavy scent of coffee fills my nose, dragging me into a long-forgotten memory. My mother’s face emerges—her gentle smile, her quiet, understanding expression when I would stumble to the breakfast table with sleepy eyes. That inexplicable connection I’ve always had to coffee becomes a silent plea, a desperate wish: to return to her. To her warmth, to her protection, to the feeling that no matter how lost I became, she would always shield me.


    Before the inspector can reach the door, I stop her. “Wait!”


    My voice is sudden and firm, catching even me off guard. The inspector halts abruptly, throwing a sharp glance over her shoulder. I know she expected this—that she knew her words would have an effect. She’s managed to pull me out of the paralysis I’d wrapped myself in, cutting through the armor I thought was impenetrable.


    “Then tell me why you were found in a room with four dead boys,” she demands, her voice cool yet filled with a probing curiosity.


    I take a deep breath, my chest tightening painfully. “That’s not a question I can simply answer,” I admit, the lump in my throat aching with every word. “I know you think I’m a murderer. But how can you understand the artist’s painting without knowing the story behind it?”


    “What’s that supposed to mean?” she asks sharply, raising an eyebrow in mockery. “Are you suggesting the murder of those boys was justified? Is that your stance?”


    “No, of course not!” I snap, the thought alone tearing at me. I can’t let her continue down this line of thinking. I can’t let her finish that question. The words spill out as though I’m fighting against the last of my strength. I don’t want her to understand me. I don’t want her to see into my soul.


    But she forces me. And every word I can’t bring myself to say hurts more than I thought possible.


    “I’ve given you one last chance,” she warns, her voice as sharp as ever, her index finger poised like a dagger in the air. “So I expect you to make the decision to speak now.”


    Her words aren’t an invitation—they’re an order, one that brooks no resistance. Yet what unsettles me more is the fire in her eyes—cold and relentless like winter storms, though tinged with the faintest warmth, the last vestiges of humanity. It’s as though that warmth is a relic of her own battle against exhaustion. Perhaps it’s the approaching Friday, or maybe patience simply isn’t her strong suit. I can’t tell yet.


    “Fine,” I finally say, my voice strained and reluctant, while every fiber of my being rebels. “But… if I speak, I have to start at the beginning. Only then will you understand why it had to end this way.”


    The words are bitter on my tongue, tasting almost like a confession. But they carry hope, too—not just for her understanding, but for mine. Perhaps, as I lay it all bare, I’ll finally grasp how this inevitable abyss opened before me.