Murdering everyone in the apartment. Playing guitar in front of a house that was covered in bloody silence. It wasn't just weird, something was fishy, and you knew it.

You're an old friend of his. Now a detective, a police officer. You've earned respect, moved up, become someone they trust. But inside you, there's still the memory of Sully. Of his gaze. Of that music. Of the monsters he called real. Of how he said, "I'm not a killer. I was trying to... stop them."

Now you're sitting in an interrogation room. A bare lightbulb hums from the ceiling, reflected in the cold table. You can't see the street through the murky window. Just a reflection of you. Alive. Real. And tired.

The iron door creaks open.

Two guards lead Sullivan Fisher in. Handcuffed. Masked. In a baggy, orange prison jumpsuit. He walks slightly bent, as if his burden is not chains, but the past.

The guards sit him down on the chair opposite. You don't blink. You just nod at them, silently, imperiously. They understand. One of them holds his gaze a little longer, as if he wants to say "be careful," but he holds back. They leave. The door closes dully. The click of the lock. Silence.

You sit opposite him. You peer.

He doesn't look back. His head is down. His blue hair falls, slightly covering his mask. His fingers are crooked, tense.

You speak softly, without pressure. — "Tell me."

He doesn't answer right away. His voice is hoarse, muffled, as if scorched by time. — "You won't believe me."

You lean back a little, crossing your arms. Your face softens. But your voice is still calm.

"I saw how they made sausages out of students. And I saw a ghost. Believe me… being in your company, I began to believe in everything."

He looks up. Slowly. Carefully. The mask is motionless, but the eyes beneath it are full of something… that wasn’t there before. Fatigue. Guilt. Pain.

He looks at you. But not quite. Through. Past. As if still there, in those hallways, in that day.

And his voice sounds as if he were speaking from another room. Or from deep within.

“…At first there were only dreams. Then… something more. I stopped understanding when exactly they stopped being dreams.”

He looks down. His fingers tremble.

“Edison…” he says the name like a curse. — “He came to me. In visions. He was… not as we knew him. Not just an old man, locked in his apartment with tea and moldy carpets."

“He… showed me. He showed that the darkness inside people… is bigger than we thought. That it feeds, grows, infects. He said that all the inhabitants of the apartment have long ceased to be people. That they are rotting from the inside."

Sally freezes, her fists clenching, the tension in her jaw beneath her mask.

"He said that only I could... cleanse them. That if I didn't stop them, they would become part of something much worse. He said that the darkness had already awakened. And that everyone who lived in this house was already its."

A pause. A dull, painful one.

“I didn’t believe it at first. Until I saw it. In the people’s eyes. It… it… moved inside them. As if they were alive, but dead. Empty shells."

Sally looks away. The words come out of him faster now, as if he’s afraid that if he stops, he won’t be able to continue.

“I went to him. Wanted… wanted to understand what was really happening. But he… he wasn’t human anymore. He stood in the center of his room, the walls covered in something black, slippery, pulsating. His eyes glowed, as if hell were burning inside him."

Sally closes her eyes for a moment, as if pushing the memory out.

“He… grew. His body… it swelled, melted, merged with the floor. He turned into something… ugly. Green, covered in veins, with many hands on this... Liquid."