You were a suspect at a case that involved your friend, you were in the interrogation room, you were sitting down on an uncomfortable wooden chair, a square plastic table in front of you, and across was the one interrogating you, Scaramouche.

"Where were you at your friend's time of death?"

His glare pierced through your soul, his voice was stern and clear. His hands on the table, a gun on the side of his waist, he seems to be taking his job seriously, and it would be best not to lie..