Episode 3: "I was waiting for SOMEONE"

Mia lowered her gaze to her notebook, forcing her breathing to steady. Damian’s last words still lingered in the air like smoke, but she pushed the unease aside and straightened in her chair.

If he wanted to unsettle her, she wouldn’t let him see it.

She clicked her pen and looked up again.

“Let’s begin with something simple,” she said, her tone calm and professional. “How old are you?”

“Twenty-five.”

His answer came smoothly, almost lazily, as if the question amused him.

Mia wrote it down.

“You’ve been here since 2017,” she continued. “And according to the case reports, you’ve escaped this prison several times. Every time you escaped, someone died. But what doesn’t make sense is this—why did you come back?”

Damian didn’t answer immediately.

He only watched her.

There was something deeply unnerving about the way he did it—not like a man listening to a question, but like someone studying a memory. His gaze moved over her face with quiet intensity, as if he were searching for traces of someone else beneath her skin.

Then, at last, he spoke.

“Because I was waiting for someone.”

Mia’s pen paused.

“Waiting for someone?” she repeated.

A faint smile touched his lips, but it never reached his eyes.

“Next question.”

She ignored the strange pull in her chest and forced herself to move on.

“Tell me about your childhood,” she said. “Your family background. Your relationship with the people who raised you.”

Damian leaned back slightly against the wall behind him, his expression unreadable.

“I was an orphan,” he said. “Later, I was adopted by the DARCURS family.”

Mia nodded for him to continue.

“For three years, I stayed with them. Then I left.”

“Why?”

“Because blood isn’t the only thing that can make a house feel like a prison.”

Mia looked up from her notes.

“And your relationship with them now?”

He gave a soft, humorless laugh.

“I don’t have one.”

She wrote that down carefully, though she could feel there was far more beneath the answer than he was willing to reveal.

“Do you keep in contact with any of them?” she asked.

“No.”

“Do you regret leaving?”

“No.”

The reply came so quickly, so flatly, that it made the silence afterward feel even colder.

Mia turned a page in her notebook.

“When you killed the victim,” she said, choosing her words carefully, “what were you feeling in that moment?”

This time, Damian’s face changed.

Not much. Just enough for Mia to notice.

The amusement vanished. His jaw tightened slightly, and something dark flickered behind his eyes.

“Revenge,” he said.

The word landed between them like a blade.

Mia’s grip on her pen tightened.

“Revenge for what?”

“For what he took from me.”

His voice had gone quieter now, but somehow that made it worse.

“He took someone away from me,” Damian continued, staring straight at her. “Someone precious.”

He paused.

“Not once. Twice.”

A chill spread slowly through Mia’s body.

“I tried to save her every time,” he said, his voice dropping lower. “And every time, I failed. He took her from me anyway.”

Mia swallowed.

“And when I finally got the chance…” His lips curved into something that was almost a smile, but there was no warmth in it. “I killed him.”

For a second, Mia forgot to write.

“Who did he take from you?” she asked quietly.

Damian said nothing.

He simply looked at her.

His gaze was so still, so intense, that it made the small cell feel even smaller.

Mia cleared her throat and tried again, keeping her tone measured.

“What exactly did he take from you that led to the murder?”

Still nothing.

Only that same unbroken stare.

Mia shifted slightly in her chair, suddenly aware of how cold her hands had become. There was something deeply uncomfortable about the way he watched her—like he wasn’t deciding whether to answer, but whether she was ready to hear it.

She looked back down at her notebook and moved to the next question.

“Did you know the victim personally before you killed him?”

“Yes.”

“How long had you known him?”

“Long enough.”

“That’s not very specific.”

“It wasn’t meant to be.”

Mia looked up at him, but Damian’s expression remained maddeningly calm.

She exhaled slowly and tried another angle.

“Did you plan the murder in advance?”

“Yes.”

“So it was premeditated.”

“Yes.”

“No hesitation?”

“No.”

“No guilt afterward?”

Damian tilted his head slightly, as though considering the question.

“Would you feel guilty for killing the man who destroyed the only thing you ever wanted to protect?”

Mia didn’t answer.

She wrote down the response exactly as he said it.

“Do you believe the victim deserved to die?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“Do you believe justice and revenge are the same thing?”

For the first time, something like real interest flashed in Damian’s eyes.

“No,” he said softly. “Justice belongs to the law. Revenge belongs to the one who survives the loss.”

Mia felt her heartbeat stutter at the way he said it.

Not like an opinion.

Like a truth he had lived.

She looked at the next line in her notes.

“When you escaped prison, did you always leave with a specific target in mind?”

“Yes.”

“The people you killed after escaping… were they all connected?”

Damian didn’t answer.

Mia waited.

His silence told her enough.

“They were,” she said quietly.

He smiled again, faint and unreadable.

“You’re good at this, Mia.”

Her name on his lips made her skin prickle.

She ignored it and continued.

“Do you hear voices?”

“No.”

“Do you experience hallucinations?”

“No.”

“Blackouts? Memory loss? Gaps in time?”

At that, Damian’s eyes sharpened almost imperceptibly.

“Not me,” he said.

Mia frowned. “What does that mean?”

But he had already gone silent again.

She stared at him for a moment, then pushed on.

“When you say you were waiting for someone… do you mean a person connected to your past?”

Damian’s gaze darkened.

“Yes.”

“Someone still alive?”

He smiled.

“Yes.”

Mia’s pulse quickened. “Who?”

Damian leaned forward at last, resting his forearms loosely against his knees. The movement was small, but it sent a wave of tension through the room. He was close enough now for Mia to see the shadows beneath his eyes, the sharp line of his jaw, the strange calmness in his face.

“Do you really want the answer to that question,” he asked softly, “or are you only pretending not to know?”

Mia’s mouth went dry.

“I don’t know what you mean.”

Another quiet laugh escaped him.

“No,” Damian murmured. “That’s the problem. You don’t.”

Mia forced herself to stay focused. “Did your crimes ever make you feel powerful?”

“No.”

“Relieved?”

“No.”

“Then what did they make you feel?”

For the first time since the interview had begun, Damian looked away from her.

His eyes drifted toward the narrow window high above the wall, where a thin line of pale light slipped through the bars. When he spoke again, his voice was so low she almost missed it.

“Closer.”

Mia stared at him. “Closer to what?”

He turned back to her.

“To her.”

The room fell silent.

Mia felt the air leave her lungs in a slow, careful breath.

She glanced down at her notebook, pretending to review her questions, but in truth she was trying to steady the sudden unease rising inside her. Every answer he gave only deepened the mystery. Every sentence felt less like an interview and more like a conversation happening one step ahead of her understanding.

Still, she forced herself to continue.

“Did you ever love her?” Mia asked before she could stop herself.

The question hung in the air between them.

For the first time, Damian’s expression shifted into something she couldn’t immediately name. It wasn’t anger. It wasn’t surprise.

It was something far more dangerous.

Something raw.

When he answered, his voice was barely above a whisper.

“I still do.”

Mia’s fingers tightened around the pen.

“And she’s dead?” she asked carefully.

Damian looked at her for a long moment.

Then he smiled—a slow, chilling smile that made the blood drain from her face.