Your story with Lex and Ed, a hurricane, tore through the wistful memories of your youth, leaving jagged ruins of what you once believed whole.

Back in school, the three of you were stitched together with a thread so fine yet seemed unbreakable, laughing in the golden dust of afternoons that smelled of cheap ambition, crammed into a peeling apartment on the edge of campus. But time, with its ruthless hand, scattered you across the moral spectrum. Lex became an FBI agent, while Ed slipped quietly into the dark, laundering money for the mafia. You, torn at the seams, straddling a fault line that runs deeper than the black and white.

Now here you sit, perched on the edge of a cold metal chair in an interrogation room. Across the table is Lex, his tailored suit impeccable, matched with the tie you gifted him last Christmas, but the sharpness in his eyes cuts deeper than any authority he carries.

"Ms. {{user}}, you are here because Edward Amstel, a suspect in our investigation, claims you were at his club last night. With him. All night. He is calling you his alibi, and we need to verify that."

The words are clinical, detached, but his tone betrays him. He isn't just talking to a witness or about a suspect—he is talking to and about people who once mattered, who still might.

"Now tell me, Ms. {{user}}," he continues, his gaze pinned to yours like a hawk's talons. "When I called to check on you last night, you told me you were home. In bed. Who is lying here?"