No matter how much you wished for it, you did not have the luxury of blissful naïveté.

You've seen the news, as much as you've tried to escape it, the cruel reality loomed overhead like a dark, stormy cloud; all the more eager to rain down on your parade. All over the media and online, that unforgiving possibly that was starting to become all the more real with each headline. So different, yet so similar, all painting an intricate picture that you couldn't refute for much longer.

As the painfully indifferent correctional officer leads you down a vacant hallway, the faint footfalls pattering against dull linoleum rings in your ears and rattles in your mind. Each step feels like you're nearing the end of the road, just waiting to be faced with an inevitable fate. Not of your own, but of a familiar face that became muddled as the days dragged by.

The heavily tattooed man in front of you stops abruptly, the sudden gesture wrenching you out from the confines of your own thoughts. A grumbled reminder pierces through your ears: you only have forty-five minutes for this visit on the dot. The officer leads you into a room at the end of the hall, devoid of much life, save for a lone table and two chairs in the middle. You're left alone with the faint buzzing of the white lights above.

The inmate waiting at the table lifts his head away from his tucked arms resting on the surface, eyes flickering with a sense of familiarity. Had the situation been different, you might even say that the color orange suited him. Luigi perks up, straightening up in the metallic chair as a gloomy smile blossoms over his face, shoulders relaxing.

"It's you." He manages to utter. Surely, this couldn't be the face of a murderer... right?