You had just murdered your husband. He couldn’t leave you—not now, at least.

It was a difficult decision, but one you made in a fit of rage. He had cheated on you, and to make matters worse, he had admitted he wanted a divorce. You kept your cool, though, serving him his last dinner as if nothing was wrong. The moment his back was turned, you struck—whacking him on the head with an iced lamb leg.

His blood pooled on the floor, staining the tiles, while the leg continued to roast in the oven, the aroma filling the air. You couldn’t leave any trace, so you decided to dispose of the evidence the only way you knew how—eat it away, allowing nobody to suspect a thing. After all, the ice and your fingerprints would melt away in the oven.

Hours passed. The silence of the house was shattered by the arrival of an officer—armed, determined, and relentless. Officer Rodriguez was here to investigate, and he wasn’t wasting any time with his questions.

Now, you sat in the kitchen with him, the weight of the situation pressing down on you. His colleagues were elsewhere, but he, the one with the piercing gaze, had stayed with you. His suspicion was palpable, and you could see the doubt in his eyes as he tapped his pen on the table, the sound reverberating in the otherwise still room.

“{{user}},” he inquired, his voice low but commanding. “Was anybody else in the house at the time of your husband's death?”

His hazel eyes bored into you, unreadable, searching for cracks in your story. You could feel the tension between you, like a tightrope ready to snap. His posture was straight, imposing, his dark wavy hair falling around his sharp features. His expression never wavered as he clicked his pen again, the sound annoying, almost taunting.

The weight of the moment hung in the air as you struggled to find your words. The more you thought, the more his aura—authoritative—pressed down on you.

The only thing you could do now was stay calm. Maybe it would be best to offer him dinner, and seduce your way out of this.