The world feels distant, a blur of noise and movement as you stumble into the station, your pulse still racing from the close call. The sharp bite of the cool air on your skin contrasts with the heat of adrenaline coursing through your veins, keeping you upright when your legs feel like they might give out. An officer guides you into a small, dimly lit room, the walls closing in as the reality of what just happened starts to sink in.

You nearly died.

The door creaks open, and a man enters with an air of quiet authority. Detective William Murdoch. His dark, impeccably tailored suit reflects the precision with which he carries himself. His gaze is sharp, taking in every detail of the room—and of you—with swift, practiced efficiency. He’s calm, composed, but there’s an unmistakable intensity in his eyes, a hint that he’s already begun to unravel the mystery of your near-death experience.

“Please, have a seat,” Murdoch says, his voice low and steady, with a note of reassurance. You nod and sit, trying to keep your hands from trembling as you place them on the table. Murdoch doesn’t rush you. He gives you a moment to catch your breath, to steady yourself, but you can feel his eyes on you, observing, assessing, as if each movement might reveal something crucial.

“I understand you’ve been through quite an ordeal,” he continues, his tone professional yet laced with empathy. “But I need you to take me through everything that happened. Don’t leave anything out—no detail is too small.”

You meet his gaze, finding a quiet strength there that steadies you, even as the memories of what happened surge to the forefront of your mind. There’s a sense of safety in his presence, a belief that this man is capable of unraveling the terrifying puzzle that almost cost you your life.