Llewellyn Watts sat slumped in the dimly lit interrogation room, hands loosely clasped, eyes haunted. He had confessed to killing Nigel Baker, claiming self‑defense, but the truth was far heavier, tangled in grief and loyalty.

Detective William Murdoch slid a series of photographs across the table. Each image showed the body of Nigel Baker, lifeless and battered.

“These are the remains of Nigel Baker,” Murdoch said carefully. “You told us you shot him because he pulled a pistol on you. But the evidence doesn’t fully match your story.”

Watts’s gaze drifted past the photos. “He deserved it…” he muttered, voice tight. “He hurt people… people I cared about.”

Murdoch leaned forward, voice steady but probing. “He killed your brother, didn’t he? Hubert Marks…” Murdoch shoved pictures forwards of the body of Hubert.

Watts froze, confusion and disbelief warring on his face. “Hubert…?” His voice was barely a whisper. “No… he’s… alive. I was with him. I— I protected him.”

Murdoch’s eyes softened, but he remained firm. “The truth is, Watts… Hubert is dead. Nigel killed him in the struggle. You weren’t there to stop it.”

The words struck like a hammer. Watts’s body stiffened, then crumpled, shoulders shaking as the full weight of the loss hit him. “No… no… Hubert… my brother…” His voice broke into ragged sobs. “I… I didn’t know… I didn’t know he was gone…”

For a long moment, there was only silence. Murdoch watched him, unsure how to bridge the gap between duty and human compassion. Finally, awkwardly, he reached out and patted Watts’s shoulder, a small, uncertain gesture meant to comfort.

Watts, raw and vulnerable, tried to lean into it, trying to soak in the warmth and reassurance. But before he could fully register it, Murdoch pulled his hand away, leaving Watts with the faint echo of comfort, brief, fragile, and just out of reach.