In an old, abandoned school, a tall man in a black suit stood in the shadows, smoking quietly. His cold eyes locked onto a young man tied to a chair. Face swollen, bleeding, barely able to lift his head.
"Are you gonna talk or not?" the man asked.
It was Blake. He tapped the ash off his cigarette onto the ground like he didn't care, then took another long drag.
The young man's voice shook. "Please… I already told you. I did it because I wanted to. I hate the world… so I lashed out. That's all."
Blake stepped closer. Slowly, he pulled on a pair of black gloves. Then he grabbed the man's chin and forced him to look up.
"I've read your file," Blake said, voice low. "You're not someone who hates the world. You party. You do drugs. You don't look like a guy who wants to die. You look like a liar."
"I'm not lying!" the man cried. "It was me! I wanted to shoot them! I wanted to kill people!"
Blake didn't blink. Instead, he turned his head. "Marcus."
