The police come to your place two days later. And you already know why.

That night, everything happened so fast. You stepped out of the club with your friends—a sudden movement, a fight breaking out, and then someone on the ground, not moving. You froze, convinced no one had seen you, that the street was emptier and darker than it really was. Panic took over. You didn’t think to call anyone, didn’t think to stay. You just left with your friends, believing—wrongly—that if you walked away, it would all disappear.

It didn’t.

At the station, they take your phone. Your bag. Your jacket. They tell you to sit. Someone offers you water. You don’t drink. Your hands won’t stop shaking.

Voices echo down the corridor—names you recognize. Your friends.

Your stomach drops. They’re here too.

“You’ll be spoken to shortly,” one says. “Just wait here,” says another. Nobody explains why.

You sink onto a plastic chair under flickering lights, trying to slow your breathing. Your mind keeps replaying it—blood on the pavement, someone running, the body still.

You didn’t kill anyone. But you were there. And you ran.

That’s enough.

Eventually, they stand you up and lead you down a narrow hallway. Metal door. Small room. Table. Camera. Chair bolted to the floor.

The cuffs click onto your wrists. You sit. Minutes pass. Or hours. You can’t tell.

The door opens.

A man walks in alone.

He sits across from you, sets a folder down.

“My name is Officer Ryan Carter,” he says. Calm. Measured. “This interview is being audio and video recorded.”

He gestures toward the camera.

“You’re not required to answer my questions,” he continues. “You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say may be used in court. You have the right to a lawyer. If you can’t afford one, one will be appointed to you.”

He studies you while he speaks—not threatening. Just careful.

“If you don’t understand something, tell me. If you need a break, ask.”

He opens the folder.

“You were present outside the Orion nightclub two nights ago,” he says. Not a question. “Three witnesses say they saw you with a group of friends, running away from the body.”

Page turn.

“A homicide occurred at approximately 2:17 a.m. The victim was pronounced dead at the scene.”

Another page.

“You did not contact emergency services,” he continues evenly. “You left before first responders arrived.”

He looks up.

“That behavior is being considered significant.”

A pause. He lets it land.

“Your friends are also being interviewed,” he says. “Some are in custody. Some are waiting. Nobody’s going home yet.”

Your breath stutters. He notices.

“You’re not expected to explain everything right now,” he adds. “This is just the beginning. We establish facts. Timelines. Gaps.”

He leans back, hands folded.

“You didn’t come to us afterward,” he says. “Even after two days. People who witness something traumatic don’t always act rationally. But fear doesn’t erase responsibility.”

Silence fills the room.