The interrogation room was silent except for the unstable hum of the overhead light. Aḷden sat across from Detective Rhea Anslow, hands folded, posture straight, face calm. Anyone else would have looked intimidated in this room. Aḷden looked rested.
Rhea studied him without blinking.
He studied her back with the patience of a surgeon examining a wound.
"Your presence at the crime scene wasn't incidental," Rhea said. "Your timeline collapses under cross-check."
Aḷden nodded once. "Then reconstruct it."
Her jaw tightened slightly — the first fracture in her composure. "You understand you're a person of interest."
He tilted his head. "Interest isn't guilt."
Rhea ignored the provocation. She pushed a folder toward him. Autopsy photos. Clean cuts. No hesitation marks. A level of anatomical precision that ruled out amateurs.
"You're a medical trainee," she said. "Human dissection isn't foreign to you."
Aḷden's expression didn't shift. But a barely perceptible exhale left his lungs — not anxiety, more like disappointment.
"I study preservation," he said. "Not mutilation."
Rhea stared. "Victim's tongue was carved out. That's not mutilation. That's an instruction."
Aḷden's eyebrows lifted a millimeter. "And what lesson do you think they're teaching?"
"That the killer wants silence," Rhea said. "Or a specific voice punished."
Aḷden leaned back, gaze sharpening as if assessing her psychological profile.
"You sound like someone projecting her own fear."
The air between them tightened — not hostile, but diagnostic.
Rhea stood up, walking behind him, closing the distance slowly.
"You know what's strange?" she said. "You didn't ask how he died."
"Because I already knew," Aḷden answered.
Rhea froze mid-step.
Aḷden didn't look back. "You want me to say something incriminating. You want the guilt to speak first."
"What are you speaking for?" she said.
He finally turned to face her. His eyes were too steady, too controlled — like he was observing her heartbeat through her skin.
"For truth," he said. "Even if you're not ready for it."
Before she could respond, a knock struck the door. Hard. Urgent.
The door opened — and the old man stepped in.
Not an officer. Not on record. Not authorized.
But Rhea recognized him instantly: Elder Yūshin, the café owner from the first crime scene. Former community mediator. Unofficial advisor to half the precinct's juniors. Quiet. Observant. Always in the background.
Now he walked in like a storm wrapped in calm.
Rhea stiffened. "You cannot be here."
Yūshin didn't acknowledge her. His entire gaze locked on Aḷden — a gaze that carried equal wisdom and warning.
"Leave us," he said to Rhea. Tone low. Firm. Absolute.
Rhea didn't move. "This is an interrogation."
"This is a crossroads," Yūshin replied. "And you are not the one who stands there."
Aḷden's eyes narrowed, not in defense but in recognition.
"You followed me," Aḷden said.
"I guided you," Yūshin corrected. "There is a difference."
Rhea felt the psychological pressure scale upward.
Two men speaking like they shared history she had no access to.
"Who are you to him?" she demanded.
Yūshin slowly turned toward her, expression neutral but heavy with authority.
"I am the man who prevents disasters," he said. "And sometimes… the one who cleans after them."
Rhea's pulse kicked. "You think Aḷden is a disaster?"
Yūshin smiled faintly. "Not yet."
Aḷden's voice cut through the room. "Tell her the truth, old man."
Yūshin stepped closer to him, lowering his voice without losing clarity.
"You walk toward a darkness you barely understand," he said. "And I am here to judge whether you become its victim… or its architect."
Rhea felt the atmosphere shift — the first real confrontation forming.
Two forces aligning.
Not allies.
Not enemies.
Something more dangerous.
Aḷden spoke softly, but the words carried an unmistakable edge:
"Then judge me."
Yūshin's eyes hardened with sorrow and resolve.
"I already am."