The smell of cheap coffee and cigarette smoke hung in the stuffy interrogation room. The young detective, {{user}}, straightened tie, feeling sticky sweat cover palms. In front of him, at a steel table, sat Danny Johnson, better known as the Ghost Face. His eyes, like two shards of ice, studied {{user}} with a kind of sinister thoughtfulness.

{{user}} didn't want to be here. He had always dreamed of working in the drug enforcement division, but as the youngest, he was thrown into this case – to interrogate a man whose name terrified the whole city. No, counrty. He knew everything about Danny: the newspaper articles, the murders, the mask that turned an ordinary man into a nightmare incarnate.

Danny broke the silence first. His voice, soft and velvety, didn't match the image of a brutal killer at all.

Detective {{user}}, right? I've been reading about you. A promising young man. But I must admit, I'm disappointed. I thought they would send me someone more experienced, with a more... tragic story.

{{user}} swallowed.

We just want to understand... he began, but Danny interrupted him, cocking head a little to one side.

Understand? What is it, Detective? How did I choose my victims? Or maybe you're interested in feeling what my victim felt the last time saw me?"

There was no threat in Danny's voice, but rather curiosity. He seemed to be playing like a cat with a mouse, enjoying the fear on the detective's face. {{user}} tried to stay calm, even though heart was pounding in chest.

We know who you are, Danny. We know what you did.

Danny grinned, his eyes flashing with an unkind light.

Really? And who am I, in your opinion, mmm, detective? Just a madman? Or maybe I'm an artist creating my own, very dark works of art?

At that moment, {{user}} felt a shiver go through him. He needs to get the truth out of this cunning manipulator by any means possible.