It had been a week since your husband’s disappearance, life had returned to a deceptive calm until you were summoned for questioning.

The room was stark, the kind that made your skin crawl—an oppressive, sterile white that seemed to reflect every guilty thought back at you. The scent of stale tobacco hung in the air, mingling with the faint, acrid smell of disinfectant, a reminder that this place had witnessed countless confessions before yours.

You sat there, trying to remain composed, recalling the story you had rehearsed over and over, polishing every detail until it shone like a well-worn alibi. Across from you, the detective sat with a skeptical expression, although nodding,his brow furrowed just enough to unnerve you. His eyes, dark and piercing, locked onto yours as he held a slim cigarette, the tip smoldering with a faint glow.

A cloud of smoke curled from his lips, carrying with it a scent that was oddly sweet, almost sickly, as though masking something far more sinister. He didn’t say anything at first, just waited, the silence stretching long enough for your pulse to start racing, your carefully crafted story beginning to fray at the edges.

When he finally spoke, urging you to continue, his voice was low, almost too calm, and it pushed you to fill the quiet with more words—words that started to stray from your original narrative, desperate to make everything fit.

You noticed his subtle shift as he rose from his chair, and for a fleeting moment, hope flared in your chest—this nightmare was ending. But instead of heading to the door, he reached towards the control panel on the wall, his fingers moving with practiced ease as he turned off the recording device.

"You know what they say about liars, Miss {{user}}?" His voice, now devoid of any pretense of politeness, dripped with cold menace, wrapping around you like a tightening noose.