preface

The fluorescent lights above me flicker — tired, like an old man who's seen too much and is now silently begging to be put down like an animal..

“So, Mr. Silas,” Arthur begins, voice low, a forced chuckle escaping his throat, “tell me why you’ve been doing what you’ve been doing.” He leans forward, trying to wear the illusion of control like a suit that doesn’t fit quite right.

“Oh, Mr. Arthur,” I murmur, lips curling into something between a smile and a sneer, “I’m nothing more than a humble man who writes in his spare time and works for the wellbeing of this little town.”

I say it with the expression of a hawk mid-meal — calm, and dangerous.

Arthur’s amused, briefly. But he wipes the look away and replaces it with anger and annoyance.

“Mr. Silas, you do understand I’m the one in power here. I hold the reins. You’re just a fly caught in my web,” he growls. “Answer my questions, or there will be consequences.”

He leans closer.

“Did you — or did you not — push Theo to do what he did?”

“Oh my,” I sigh, mockingly. “Now that’s a question. But you, dear investigator, should know better. Firing off direct questions without consent? Not exactly… legal. Your first words should’ve been, ‘Are you comfortable being questioned and recorded, mr silas?’ But OH MY– you didn’t ask that. A simple misstep, yes, but one that could make your precious little job go poof.”I smirk, a hand mockingly close to his side of the table.

Arthur shifts in his seat, his jaw tightening.

“I’m aware of the citizen's rights,” he says with a smug little grin. “But the law also states that any person under investigation is permitted — if not obliged — to answer.”and "what do you know about consent Mr silas”, his voice low but husky.

Finally, he sits, one leg slung over the other, hands calmly interlaced.

“True,” I reply smoothly. “But I’m not exactly listed as a suspect, am I Mr Arthur? You told me I’m here for questioning because I was his therapist. Not because I’m a suspect.”

I flash him a slow smile.

He lets out a chuckle. “Mr. Silas, you’ve really played this well. Knowing the law and hiding behind the medical field? You’ve practically opened a case for yourself.”

I stand — slowly, deliberately — and raise my hand in front of me.

“Mr Arthur if I wanted I could've had you ; both like literally and metaphorically” .

Then, with a sudden whip of my hand, I slam my palm down onto the edge of the table. Blood blossoms from my skin, warm and dripping.

Arthur freezes; like a deer caught in headlights.

I stare straight into his eyes and smirk. His expression — is it guilt? Or a flicker of sorrow It's hard to tell.

Like the flickering of the fluorescent lights above us.

“Seems like someone’s got hemophobia,” I whisper, voice low and teasing. “Have fun explaining this to your superiors, my love~”

I stand, steps echoing behind him, and stroke the back of his head gently.

“I want to slice this pretty little body of yours to pieces, Mr. Arthur,” I say with a grin. Mine, not his.

I walk past him. A single tear mixes with the blood dripping from my palm as I make my way to the nearest officer, with my bleeding hand on my head.

“OH GOD! Mr. Arthur’s lost it! He slammed me against the table. Please — someone help — I can’t stand the blood!”

Officers rush toward me like bees to honey. I collapse to the floor, sobbing — a performance I didn’t know I could pull off so well. Poor old me, beloved by all. Why wouldn’t they help?

When Uncle Miller’s young son died, who did he call?

Not Arthur. Not his wife. Not his children.

He called me.

The town’s quiet little savior. The same guy who helps the elderly , who helps cut the grass in the millers lawn.

“WHO DID THIS TO YOU?!” shouts the department head — the same man I once helped through his war-haunted nightmares.

Even the youngest officer, barely through training, rushes to my side. Old friends, all of them. Of course they believe me.

“It was Arthur!” I scream, clutching Uncle Miller’s wrinkled hand.

Every head turns.

In the back of the room, Arthur bolts, racing toward the bathroom.

His body slammed through the doorway, collapsing hard onto the floor. Miller stormed toward him, not to help — but to shout, to tear into him in front of everyone. The others moved fast, not in confusion,closing in,like dogs in rut.

Poor, pitiful me, I thought, Mr. Silas — the beloved one, the trusted one. The man they call when no one else is there.

Ronin appeared at my side, grabbing my hand firmly, his voice low as he dialed for the ambulance.

“He hated you the second you moved here,” he said. “Everyone knows.”

There voices fade as my hand reaches for the—

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