As they all waited, a sudden clatter rang through the hallway—sharp, metallic, followed by muffled shouts of protest. K turned his head toward the door, as did Ivan and the supervisor. The noise grew louder—the shuffle of feet, the clinking of handcuffs.

K edged toward the door and peered through the crack.

Outside, in the dimly lit corridor, tenants were being led away—heads down, wrists bound. But something was strange. Each tenant was accompanied by a man in black, identical in dress to Ivan and the supervisor. A one-to-one ratio, as if every resident had their own personal escort into whatever fate awaited them.

Then, without warning, two of them stepped into the kitchen. Their suits were crisp and severe, their expressions void of anything resembling curiosity or explanation. They moved with mechanical precision.

Cold steel snapped shut around the supervisor’s wrists first. He barely managed to stammer, "Are you—are you from the High Office?" His voice cracked, turning desperate. His eyes darted between the two men. "Who gave the order? What department are you from?"

The men did not answer immediately. They tightened the cuffs before speaking, their tone measured, empty.

"We received a report."

"A report?" The supervisor swallowed.

"Someone in this building is a suspect in a murder."

"Who? When? Where?" His voice pitched higher.

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"We don’t know." The man adjusted his grip on the cuffs. "We are here to arrest everyone."

"But why—"

"That is not our concern."

Ivan flinched as one of them grabbed his arm. "Wait—what is this? What’s going on?" His voice wavered, but there was no response, no explanation.

Then they turned to K.

"You are all under suspicion of murder."

---------------------

"This doesn’t make any sense," K muttered. His voice was hoarse, more from exhaustion than protest. "I haven’t eaten anything. I have work today."

One of the officials, the one tightening the cuffs around Ivan’s wrists, turned to him with an impassive stare. "As soon as you cooperate, everything will proceed smoothly. You will be interviewed, and then you may resume your routine. You may eat your breakfast. You may go to work."

The words had the weight of a practiced reassurance, but they rang hollow.

K glanced at the supervisor, who had gone silent, his lips trembling but voiceless now. Ivan had stopped struggling. There was no sense in arguing. The absurdity of it all hung in the air, thick and inescapable.

K exhaled and simply extended his wrists. The metal locked around them with a mechanical finality.

He had no more questions. He didn’t even want answers.

He only waited for it to end.

And, he suspected, the others felt the same.