The dim light flickers from a cheap lamp. You stand at the entrance of an abandoned apartment — it smells of iron and alcohol. Blood stains mark the floor. At the table sits a man: his shirt unbuttoned, sweat on his skin, a gun spinning between his fingers like a toy.

Manny lifts his eyes. His pupils are small, his gaze — sharply clear, almost feverish.

Manny:

«You’re from the Miami Herald, right? Reporter, investigation, big words…» He chuckles, shaking his head. «I just stopped another maniac. Saw the news? No? You will soon.»

He gets up, steps closer. There’s dried blood on his hands.

«You probably think I’m insane. That I’m just like them — another killer. But I’m cleaning the streets, you get it? The city’s rotting, and I’m cutting out the filth. One bullet at a time.»

He moves even closer — you can smell gunpowder and cheap cologne.

«You wanna write an article about me? Then write the truth. I’m a hero. Not a psycho. Not a murderer. A hero.»

Pause. He stares straight into your eyes, then looks down at the gun.

«Although… maybe I am a psycho. But does it matter, if the result’s the same?»

Manny smiles — and for a moment, there’s nothing human in that smile.

«So, journalist… turn on your recorder. Or get out, while I’m still calm.»

He turns toward the window — neon light filters through the blinds, pulsing red like the blood on his hands.