He slams his fists on the table causing me to flinch. Sweat flew at tangents from his wrinkled forehead and furrowed eyebrows. He wore a black polo shirt a size too small. It's so tight that it put all his muscles on display, almost as if trying to intimidate me. The room was made to make you feel more uncomfortable than you've ever been. A faint smell of dried blood filled the air airing an ominous vibe.

"We know it's you. There's no point in stalling, just confess." His umber orbs stared down my soul. A deep scar spanning across his right cheek to the corner of his lips made his threatening demeanor much more terrifying.

All I know is that I'm a suspect of a murder case, how they came to the conclusion was a mystery to me. I've never even been around a real crime scene let alone commit one.

"I'm talking to you here." He waves his fingers in front of my eyes. "Don't try to play the insanity card, we know you're sound of mind." he glowered.

Insanity card? This guy is the one who's out of it. I just zoned out because everything was happening too fast. It's not an everyday thing where you're put in handcuffs, and dragged outside of your local grocery store. Then thrown into an interrogation room where two people is standing in front of you trying to force you to confess. It's just like I am the protagonist in a movie where I'm wrongly accused of murder and I run away until I can prove my own innocence. Like in 'The Fugitive'. Only worse, I don't even know who's murder case I'm being accused of.

"I have no idea what you're talking about. I never murdered anyone." I answered, shaking my head. My hand was starting to tremble. If this is a dream it would be the weirdest dream I've had in a while. Ever since the dream where I argued with my dog, Oreo, about the new toy I brought him and how he doesn't like it and then he threatened to leave the house... Nothing topped it since. Leon wouldn't stop laughing at me for days. Just looking at my face he'd remember that and almost choke from laughter. To this day he'd randomly remember and then he'd laugh like a maniac.

I blinked, my mind reluctantly returning from the whimsical labyrinth of a dream that had taken me far from this tense interrogation room. Detective Cains's penetrating gaze seemed to probe deeper, while Rains's silent, intimidating presence made the atmosphere feel even more claustrophobic.

The silence that followed my denial was so profound that I could hear their breathing. Cain's menacing stare seemed to stretch endlessly, punctuated only by the faint sound of his fingers drumming impatiently on the table. Each tap echoed through the room like warning bells, underscoring the latent violence simmering beneath his barely controlled exterior. His face contorted into a disdainful grimace. "You're a psychopath, huh? Only a psycho can have such an innocent look and zone out like that because they don't feel an ounce of remorse." His creased brows complimented the mixture of anger and bewilderment in his eyes. "Do you even realize what you've done is wrong?"

Finally, the woman standing quietly behind him stepped forward and placed a firm hand on Cain's shoulder, "I'm Detective Rain and he's Detective Cain. And no we're not siblings." she broke her silence pulling back a little so he'd calm him down. I would laugh at that lame joke — if it was even meant to be a joke in the first place but I didn't. I'm scared. All I do is rot in my room writing, eating, or sleeping. I didn't do anything. Why am I being questioned?

This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

Cain crosses his arms and breaks eye contact with me. "You think it's time for jokes? I doubt you'll make it as a detective." he chided, eyeing her with derision.

She gave him a curt, sidelong glance, then swiftly opened the folder in her arms, pulling out a document with a fluid, practiced motion. "Are you familiar with this book?" She slides 'A Symphony of Murder' on the table.

I nod my head. What are these dumb questions? I'm very familiar with this book. I mean I wrote it. I know they know that. "Yes." I answer with a raised brow.

Cain crosses his arms; the frown on his face turns into a sneer as if he'd just solved the greatest mystery of all time.

"That means you're the killer."

I place my handcuffed hands on the cold, metallic table, the clink of the chains echoing in the silent room. My palms are sweaty, and my heart races as I look up, meeting their eyes with a mixture of desperation and determination. "Look, I swear it's not me," I plead, my voice trembling slightly but filled with conviction. "You've got the wrong person. Yeah, I wrote the book but I never murdered anyone. Someone might have used my character to murder someone and frame me." That's the only plausible explanation. I never thought someone would read my book and decide, 'Sounds cool let's try it in real life'. Please tell me I'm just living through a horrible nightmare.

Detective Rain nodded thoughtfully, her hand finding its way to her hip as she brought the picture close to her eyes. Her expression was inscrutable, framed by a curtain of dark hair that fell in loose waves around her face. The room's dim light glinted off her badge, the only hint of authority in her otherwise casual demeanor. She remained silent for a moment, weighing her words carefully before finally speaking. "That's a possibility, but for now, you're the main suspect," she declared firmly, her voice betraying none of the doubt that flickered briefly in her eyes. I watched her closely, trying to read the thoughts behind her hazel eyes as they scrutinized me.

Cain grabs the chair across the table and tosses it to the side leaving him space to lean on the table. His large calloused hands splayed out pressing into the table with a menacing force. He then leans in, his rough, scarred face coming uncomfortably close to mine. The network of scars—deep, jagged, and rough—etched across his cheeks and forehead, marked his face His dirty blond hair, cut short but unkempt, framed his hardened features. I look to the side trying to avoid eye contact.

The scent of him—a blend of sweat and something sharper—hung in the air, intensifying the oppressive atmosphere. His eyes, cold and unyielding, locked onto mine with a steely gaze. The bulk of his presence, combined with the intimidating angle and the sheer proximity, made it clear that he intended to unsettle and dominate me.

His hands turn into tight fists. "That's not a possibility. I'm telling you, I worked here for over a decade. My instinct is that of tigers. I know these types of murderers. When they feel bored or guilty they end up writing a novel of their own crimes."

I'm sick of this guy and this stupid power play. They haven't even presented any proper evidence against me. I mean it's not like they'll find any because I didn't do it. Is the warrant they showed me earlier even real? "Do you have any actual evidence against me?" I queried. I'm almost certain they just want to threaten me and push me to confess so they can just close the case.

"It's circumstantial evidence but we can still interrogate you," Cain states; crossing his legs as he pulls a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket. Is he seriously about to smoke in here? In this small, windowless room?

They're trying to pressure me into giving a false confession. Well, they got the wrong guy. I watched too many crime shows to fall into their mediocre mind games. I'll be doing the questioning here. This type of harassment should end in a lawsuit.