Marek sat in the dimly lit room, his hands bound to the cold steel of the interrogation table. Sweat trickled down his brow, and his eyes darted nervously to the two Peacekeepers standing across from him, their faces unreadable. His heart pounded in his chest, fear constricting his throat. He had been caught, dragged in like a common criminal, but he hadn’t done it—he hadn’t killed anyone.

"I didn't do it," Marek blurted out. "I swear to you, I’m not guilty! I know who did, though! I know who’s responsible!"

The Peacekeeper to his left, a tall man with a scar across his cheek, crossed his arms and leaned against the wall, unimpressed. The other one, older and more grizzled, stepped forward, his eyes narrowing as he stared down at Marek.

"Then why did you run?" the older Peacekeeper asked. "We found you trying to flee the moment our men approached. Makes you look guilty as hell."

Marek swallowed hard, his gaze flicking between them. His pulse was racing, the walls of the small room closing in around him.

“I panicked! I heard that a Peacekeeper had been murdered, and when I saw you guys coming toward my house... I just—I don’t know, I freaked out, okay? I thought you were coming for me! I didn’t know what to do. I just ran.”

He could see the Peacekeeper's eyes assessing him, weighing his words. For a brief moment, Marek allowed himself to hope that they might believe him. His hands shook, clenched tightly in his lap, as he tried to steady his breath.

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The older Peacekeeper studied him for a long, tense moment, his gaze hard and unyielding. Then, after what felt like an eternity, he nodded slowly. "All right," he said, his voice still cold but with a slight edge of curiosity. "If you didn’t do it, who did? Give us the names."

Marek licked his dry lips, his mind racing. This was his chance. He had to be careful. "It was a girl," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. "Blue eyes. White hair. And… and a guy named Ken. He’s got black hair, kind of average-looking. Normal build."

The Peacekeepers exchanged a glance, their expressions inscrutable. Marek’s heart skipped a beat as he watched them, praying they would take him seriously.

"You’re sure about this?" the scarred Peacekeeper asked, stepping forward. His tone was skeptical, but there was a hint of interest in his voice now.

Marek nodded frantically, desperation leaking into his words. "Yes! I’m sure! I saw them. The girl—she’s the one in charge. I’m telling you, she’s dangerous. I heard she’s trying to start some kind of revolution."

The room fell into a heavy silence. The Peacekeepers shared another look, their unreadable expressions making Marek’s stomach churn with anxiety.

Finally, the older Peacekeeper leaned down, getting close enough for Marek to feel his breath on his skin. "If you’re lying," he whispered, his voice low and menacing, "you’ll wish you were the one lying dead in that alley."

Marek's throat tightened, his mouth dry as ash. He shook his head, eyes wide. "I'm not lying. I swear."

For a moment, the Peacekeeper said nothing, just stared into Marek’s eyes as though he were trying to see straight into his soul. Then, with a nod, he stood up straight and signaled to his partner.

“Lock him up for now,” the older Peacekeeper ordered. “If his story checks out, we’ll know where to find this Ken and his little friend. They can’t get far without showing their ID.”