17#17

17

The vehicle's wheels squealed as we raced through the cramped alleys. I gazed out the window, watching the urban landscape whiz by, my wrists sore from the tight handcuffs.

The policemen remained silent. I hadn't expected them to talk. Four of them had roughly shoved me into the patrol car, their grasp unyielding, and I knew better than to keep resisting.

Nevertheless, every part of me yearned to resist.

Shortly after, the vehicle halted abruptly. An officer swung the door open, and before I could react, they hauled me out. The police station stood before me, its harsh lights exposing my disgrace. They didn't allow me to regain my balance, pushing and pulling until I was thrust into a holding cell.

I collided with the frigid concrete floor, gasping for air. The resounding clang of the cell door locking echoed, and I couldn't suppress a bitter chuckle.

How fitting. This was the grand finale of my existence—languishing in a cell for Victor Salvani's murder.