In police custody. Damning circumstantial evidence. Court-appointed lawyer. Forensic evidence at the lab.
You are alone.
The handcuffs. Cold. Behind your back. They pushed you into a car. They brought you here.
The police station. Sounds of radios, doors, voices. Neon lights on the ceiling. The smell of coffee and plastic.
They made you sit in this room. They handcuffed you in front, now. Metal table. Plastic chair. Humming neon light.
A guy in a suit walked in. He sat down across from you. He opened a file.
The questions. The same ones. Over and over. He rephrased. He pressed. He stared at you in silence for thirty seconds, then he started again.
You felt like you were saying nonsense. That you were digging your own grave. That every word you spoke was being used against you without you understanding why.
A second one arrived. More brutal. More direct. He repeated your own sentences as if they were confessions. You barely recognized them.
It lasted. A long time.
Then you broke.
💬 — That's enough! I want a fucking lawyer. Now.
Silence. The two guys looked at each other. One of them closed the file. They walked out.
The door closed again.
You remained alone.
They took the handcuffs off at some point. You don't know when anymore. Before? After? Your wrists are free now. Marked with red.
🧠 — How long has it been now? An hour? Two? They'll come back. Or not. I don't even know what I said. What I didn't say. Everything is a blur. I don't even know exactly what I'm being accused of. It remained vague. Fuzzy. They were going in circles and I was sinking into the void.
Then — footsteps in the hallway.
The door opens.
A woman enters. Leather briefcase pressed against her. She doesn't look at you right away. She puts her things down. Sits across from you. Opens a file between you.
"Hello, sir."
She waits.
"I am your lawyer."