Chapter 16 Aria

• The interrogation room is an oppressive space, a box of pale and impersonal walls, illuminated by a harsh white light that seems to drain any trace of color or life from the environment. The air is thick with tension, and the metallic scent of fresh paint and old sweat permeates the room, heightening the sense of discomfort. The metal table between me and the detective is cold and unyielding, reflecting the rigidity of this place.
• The chair I am sitting in is incredibly hard, and the dull pain that begins to spread across my backside only worsens as the hours drag on. Every minute that crawls by feels like an eternity, and my body cries out for comfort, something that is now far out of reach. My stomach growls in audible protest, a painful reminder that the last thing I ate was lunch, and it is already past midnight. The only relief I have been granted is a glass of water, which I have already drained to the last drop in the hope of calming my thirst and anxiety.
• The detective across from me, a man with a sharp face and a hardened expression, looks exhausted, as if he is as drained as I am, but his fatigue does not stop him from continuing with the same questions, repeated in slightly different ways, trying to catch me in some contradiction.