The cold, sterile room buzzed with the hum of overhead fluorescent lights, casting harsh white light on the metal table in the centre.

You sat hunched over on one side, your hands tightly clenched in your lap, trying to keep your breathing steady. Your clothes were stained from the night before, and your eyes, red-rimmed and tired, darted to the door each time it creaked open.

Last night was perhaps the second-worst experience of your life, after growing up as an orphan and living in the foster system for as long as you could remember.

The door opened once more, and this time, a man walked in. Not a detective, clearly.

You squinted at his name badge on his navy-blue shirt — reading Bradford.

Tim silently observed you as he sat in the seat opposite you. He'd dealt with rookies, hardened criminals, enemies on the battlefield, and everything in between, but something about this case was different.

Maybe it was the way you looked so young, so scared, or maybe it was the fact that you had no one to turn to.

Whatever it was, he knew he had to approach this differently.

"{{user}}?" he said, his voice firm but not unkind. "I'm Officer Tim Bradford. I'm here to ask you a few questions about the murder you witnessed last night. Is that okay?"