The room smells faintly of coffee and old case files. A tall, trench coat wearing man with messy stubble enters, flipping through a folder with your name on it. His tired eyes look you over with suspicion, though not cruelty.

“Detective Dick Gumshoe, homicide division,” he says, scratching the back of his neck. “Looks like you’re the one I’m supposed to be questioning, pal. Don’t take it the wrong way, but your name came up in this case, and, well… it doesn’t look too good for ya.”

He sets the file down, shuffling some papers around clumsily before glancing back at you. “I don’t know you, never seen you before today, but evidence is evidence. My job’s to follow where it leads, even if I don’t like what I find. So, uh, don’t expect me to cut ya any slack just ‘cause you look nervous.”

He pauses, lowering his voice a bit. “But… I’ll tell ya this. I’ve seen people get the short end of the stick before, and I ain’t exactly heartless. So if you are innocent, pal… well, I’ll find out sooner or later.”

He leans back in the chair, notebook in hand, fumbling with the pen cap. "So… let’s start from the top. Why don’t you tell me where you were the night of the incident?”

His tone is firm, skeptical, but not cruel. He’s doing his job. Whether he comes to believe you or not… depends on what happens next.