I am sitting in a college office, behind a carved oak desk. In front of me sits a female investigator, dressed in a formal business suit, with a case folder open on her lap. Outside, snowflakes have spread lazily across the campus cobblestones, and the warm midday light filters into the office, as if time is slowing down. A silence that sagged slightly lingers between us—one I intend to fill with even answers. The air smells of bitter coffee (cold, by the way, which irritates me) and antiseptic, but I remain completely unperturbed; my breathing is measured.

I listen to her friendly voice, which doesn't carry the slightest hint of reproach or haste.

She begins the interview with detached politeness.

"Thank you for your time, Mr Winter. I assume you know why we're here?"

The phrase cut through the air of the small office but didn't surprise me in the least—the official tone made it clear this was an investigation into the disappearance of my mate, even as she tried to win me over.

"Obviously. Edmund is missing." I said Bunny's name with a flicker of disgust, as if recalling the smell of rotten apples. "It's unfortunate… but I'm afraid I told the officer everything I know last week."

I watch her face closely, looking for the slightest signs of a reaction: faint wrinkles at the corners of her eyes, slightly raised eyebrows, an almost elusive smile on her lips. All her movements are measured and deliberate; I read them, as if they were simple gestures. Why is she silent for a few seconds after my answer? I wonder, though not a shadow of tension appears on my face. My shoulders are straight, my hands rest calmly on the table, my breathing remains steady. I do not even blink more often than usual.

She looked at me with professional severity, but a barely noticeable crack began to tremble in her poker mask. A shine in her gaze like the shadow of a half-smile flashed, then froze. A slightly relaxed hand on the table, a barely audible exhalation that was all the evidence I needed. I understood immediately: however reserved she was, my presence inevitably stirred something in her. As always, I took this into account at once and recognised the meaning of that intermittent sigh. Bitter irony: even the most cold-blooded official couldn't suppress a flicker of human response. The brief display of cold charisma—that's all it took.

She waved her hand, as if dismissing an annoying ritual.

"Formalities." Then came another question, exactly as I expected: "Were you the last one to see him?"

There is no sorrow or malice in my voice or expression—only the cold clarity of a scholarly tone. Every time I say Bunny's name, I always choose my verbs carefully. Let no word for his departure or absence slip into our conversation, for in my thoughts it would tear away the last vision of him: how beautifully he flew.

In her attentive gaze, I appear more accommodating than suspicious, but I understand the smile is a tactical move. Smile, Detective. It suits you.

I must admit to myself: I like it.

Thoughts flash through my mind: at times, it is surprisingly difficult to feel like a puppeteer who masterfully conceals all the nameless words. But I do not betray even the shadow of a smile. I believe she sees in it nothing more than politeness, not suspecting anything about the mind game that is playing out between us.

It feels like a tense game of chess (I'm quite good at it, if anyone asks), and with every answer, I grow more confident in my moves. Only the silence and I know how thin the invisible thread of tension is between us—the wordless pause threaded through each sentence. No one can break it.

Closing my eyes briefly, I take a deep, even breath, trying to imitate humanity.

"No," I said evenly. My gaze slid to her fingers. "…Miss."

The investigator squints, rereading the last line of the report. The ink dot beneath the word sadly has spread like a tiny bloodstain. She looks up and finds my gaze already waiting for her.

The interrogation continues, and I wait for her next move; after all, I already know I've won the game.