Zara
I I press my back against the cold wall, hidden in the dim corner of the interrogation room. The fluorescent lights flicker overhead, stretching long shadows across the table where the captive trembles. Raymond stands to the left — pale, recently discharged, still recovering — yet steady enough to be here tonight. It unsettles me how he masks pain behind discipline, like the injury never existed.
My pulse races faster than it should; every quiet breath feels risky, as if any sound could expose me.
He fidgets. Thin, mid-twenties, uniform wrinkled, hair damp with nervous sweat. Just a waiter from the party… yet the way he twists under the ropes, eyes flicking between Raymond and Marcus, tells me he understands the danger he's in.
Marcus leans forward, relaxed body, lethal presence.
"You love your life?" he asks.. Voice low, even.
The captive swallows hard. "I… I don't—"
"Open your mouth, or I'll decide for you," Marcus cuts in, resting the barrel lightly against the table's edge. His posture is relaxed, almost lazy—but the threat in his calmness could shred confidence in a second.
Raymond doesn't move. He watches. Always watches. His eyes scan the man, noting the tremor in his fingers, the shallow rise of his chest. Calculating. Waiting for a slip.
I step slightly to adjust my mask. One wrong breath and they'll see me. But no one does. I've been here before—unseen, unnoticed, untouchable. And yet, tonight, my chest is tight. My hands are slick with adrenaline.
Marcus taps the gun against the table. "I'll ask again. Who sent you? Now."
"I… I don't know his name," the captive stammers. Sweat drips down his temple. "He wore a mask. That's all I know. He said… he said a woman wants this done."
Raymond's jaw tightens. He leans forward, voice controlled but sharp. "A woman? And you obeyed? Just like that?"
"I… I was paid," the captive says quickly. "Cash. Envelope. Vial. That's it. I didn't meet her. Never saw her face. Never—"
Marcus slams the table once. Just enough. The man jerks back, eyes wide. "Calm, calm. It's fine," he whispers, voice trembling.
Raymond's hand brushes his chin, considering. "Where did this happen?"
"Staff storage room… behind the service area. I was collecting supplies… he cornered me. Quick instructions, cash, vial. That's all I had to do. I just… I just put it in the glass. I didn't serve it yet. I didn't—"
"You didn't serve it," Marcus repeats, mock sympathy in his tone. "Lucky for her. Lucky for all of us." He gestures with the gun, just the tip, to emphasize his point. "Do you love your life?"
The man swallows again, eyes watering. "Yes… yes, I do!"
Raymond moves slightly, resting a hand on the back of a chair. "So you're telling the truth. You didn't know her identity. Just that a woman wanted this done. You were hired. Correct?"
"Yes," he whispers, voice cracking. "Everything. That's it."
I can feel my pulse in my throat. Watching, listening, remembering every micro-movement from that night. The masked contractor. The quick transfer of cash and vial. The near-perfect timing. And how I had to hold my breath behind the corner, unseen, untouched, unseen.
Marcus leans closer, the gun still present, not aggressive but a clear reminder. "You understand that if you lie, or if we don't like your answers…" He pauses. "…I can make this table a very dangerous place for you."
The captive nods frantically. "I… I understand! I swear!"
Raymond's eyes narrow. "Why this job? Why poison a glass?"
"I… I don't know! I just got instructions. He said the woman would pay, she would… she would be happy. I didn't ask. I—"
"Because you obeyed," Marcus interrupts, tapping the table again. The captive flinches.
"Yes," he gasps. "I needed the money. I—"
"Money doesn't matter now," Raymond says softly, leaning back. "Survival does."
I shift again, adjusting my stance. The tiniest sound, but they don't notice. I remember every corner of that party, every staff corridor, every bottle shelf. I had been there, masked, silent, calculating. And the idea of exposure still makes my stomach clench.
Marcus presses the gun harder against the table's surface, making the captive flinch once more. "Listen carefully. You stay here, answer us, or I'll decide for you. You follow?"
"Yes! I'll talk. I'll tell you everything."
Raymond tilts his head, gaze piercing. "Do you understand the consequences if you run? Or lie?"
The man shakes violently. "I… I do! I swear! I won't run! I won't lie!"
--- Flashback ---
I remember that night. Shadows in the storage room. The masked contractor, cash in hand, whispering instructions. The vial cold in his palm. And me, pressed against the wall, breath held, pulse racing, every muscle ready.
I watched him pour the liquid into the glass, steady hands, precise, almost clinical. I counted seconds, every motion, memorized each line. Then the sudden interruption—Raymond and Marcus, calm, controlled, inevitable.
--- Present ---
Raymond leans over the man again. "Almost perfect. You almost succeeded. Do you understand how close you came?"
"Yes!" the captive shouts, voice cracking. "I—I didn't even serve it yet! You caught me just… just in time!"
Marcus shakes his head slowly. "Time isn't your friend here. Neither is luck."
I notice the way Raymond's fingers tap lightly on the table—thinking, calculating, processing. The way the captive's eyes flicker to Marcus, to the gun, then back to Raymond. Fear mingled with relief.
Raymond's voice drops, measured, almost a whisper. "Make sure you find him."
The man freezes. "Find… find who?"
"Whoever sent you," Raymond says, standing. "And they will pay. No one slips through this net."
I step back, fading into shadow. My pulse still thunders in my ears. Invisible, yet implicated. Untouched, yet central.
Marcus walks the captive to the chair, keeping the gun close, eyes scanning. "Stay put. Answer fully. I'll be back."
The man nods, trembling. "I—I will. Anything you want, I'll—"
Raymond crouches slightly, hand brushing my imagined shoulder, "They will surely pay for it. I promise. They will pay!"
The tension hangs thick. Every shadow, every breath, every subtle sound matters. Outside, the city hums on obliviously. The party is long gone, yet its consequences echo in this room.
I feel the thrill, the fear, the responsibility. The weight of unseen power, I was observing, calculating, untouchable. The pulse in my throat, the slickness in my palms, the closeness of exposure.
Marcus slams the table once more for emphasis, enough to jolt, not break. "You got that? One false move, one lie…" He lets the threat linger, gun poised, calm, inhumanly patient. "…and it's over for you."
The captive gulps, sweat dripping from his brow. "Yes! I understand!"
Raymond straightens, voice sharp, final. "Good. You're being watched. Every word counts. Make no mistakes. Understand?"
"Yes," the man whispers, eyes wide and terrified.
I let myself exhale slowly, blending into the shadows again. Invisible. Safe. For now. And yet…
The door clicks. Footsteps fade. The captive is left alone, trembling, monitored, controlled. The room exhales, tension still thick, but shifted.
I glance at Raymond once more. His gaze is sharp, thoughtful, resolute. And I know the chase has just begun.
I slip into the corridor, heart racing, mind alive with calculations, knowing I've left my mark on the night, unseen, untouchable. But the game is far from over.
And I wonder—do I chase justice—or let the shadow I've become decide for me?