The interrogation room was colder at night.
Not physically—Noah had checked the thermostat twice—but in the way sound seemed to fall dead before reaching the walls. Like the room swallowed words. Like it had learned the language of confession too well.
Evan sat with his hands folded on the metal table.
Not cuffed.
Not restrained.
That alone unsettled Noah more than chains ever could.
"You asked to speak again," Noah said, standing instead of sitting. He didn't know why he refused the chair. Maybe sitting felt too close to believing.
Evan nodded once. His eyes were dull tonight, like someone had rubbed all the reflection out of them.
"I think I explained it wrong before."
Noah folded his arms. "You explained nothing."
A pause.
Then Evan spoke softly. "I don't see murders."
Silence.
Noah waited. The kind of waiting that sharpened air.
"I don't see faces. Or weapons. Or blood." Evan swallowed. "I don't even always see the victim."
Noah's jaw tightened. "Then how the hell do you know?"
Evan's fingers twitched against each other.
"I feel them."
Noah almost laughed. Almost.
Instead, his voice came out low. "That's not an answer."
"It is," Evan said. "Just not a useful one."
Noah exhaled through his nose, slow, controlled. "Try."
Evan looked at the wall instead of him.
"It's like… pressure. Not in my head. In my chest. Like someone stacking stones inside me, one decision at a time."
Noah didn't interrupt.
"When it's weak, I can ignore it. It's just noise. Like standing near a crowd."
His voice dropped.
"When it's strong… it's quiet. That's how I know it's real."
Noah's eyes narrowed. "Quiet?"
"Yes. No doubt. No hesitation." Evan finally looked at him. "That's the moment someone stops being human and becomes… inevitable."
The room felt smaller.
"You expect me to write this down?" Noah said. "In a report?"
Evan's mouth curved faintly. Not a smile. Something tired.
"No. I expect you to arrest me again."
Noah stepped closer to the table.
"You predicted three murders."
"I predicted three decisions."
"You knew the locations."
"Guessed. Patterns. The city only has so many places people go to die."
"You knew the timing."
Evan hesitated.
"That's the only part I'm never sure about."
Noah leaned forward, palms flat on the metal.
"So you're saying you don't know what will happen."
Evan met his gaze fully now.
"I know what someone has decided to do."
The words settled badly. Like something alive crawling under the skin.
Noah straightened slowly.
"You could be lying."
"Yes."
"You could be sick."
"Yes."
"You could be the killer."
"Yes."
Noah studied him for a long moment.
"And you're fine with that?"
Evan blinked.
"I'm fine with you stopping them."
Something flickered across Noah's face before he could stop it. Not softness.
Conflict.
The door opened.
"Emergency coffee delivery."
Kai walked in like sunlight had borrowed legs—two paper cups in his hands, smile lazy and familiar.
"You both look like you're auditioning for a funeral brochure."
He handed one cup to Noah automatically.
Then offered the other to Evan.
Evan blinked. "…Thank you."
"No problem. Try not to predict my death, yeah? I just bought new shoes."
Noah groaned. "Why are you here again?"
Kai gasped dramatically. "Wow. No 'hi.' No 'how's your emotional breakdown.' Just straight to rejection."
"This is a police station," Noah said. "Not your living room."
"And yet you're always here," Kai said easily. "Brooding. Dramatic. In desperate need of caffeine."
Rhea appeared at the door, tablet tucked under her arm.
"He stole my parking spot again," she told Noah flatly.
"I was five seconds early," Kai protested.
"You were illegally early."
Kai turned to Noah. "See what I deal with?"
Noah pinched the bridge of his nose. "Both of you. Out."
Kai grinned. "You miss me."
"I miss silence."
"Liar."
Rhea rolled her eyes but smiled faintly. "Pathology report's ready when you are."
"Thanks," Noah muttered.
Kai leaned closer. "Don't stay up too late without me."
"Go."
"Heartless."
They left, still bickering softly.
Normal.
Warm.
Human.
Noah looked back at Evan.
For the first time, Evan was holding the coffee like his hands were shaking.
Noah turned off the light when he left.
Slowly.
Carefully.
As if darkness might finish something the killers had started.