Episode 2: The Cracks Beneath the Surface

The silence stretches between us, coiling around my throat like a noose. The interrogation room feels smaller than before, the weight of our conversation pressing into every empty corner. My fingers tighten against the steel, the cold seeping into my skin. I resist the urge to flex them.

Detective Monroe watches me with the patience of a predator that knows its prey is cornered. He hasn’t spoken in over a minute, but he doesn’t need to. His mere presence chips away at my defenses, piece by piece.

I exhale, slow and measured. “Is this your strategy? Silence me into guilt?”

Monroe tilts his head, glancing at me like he’s seen this performance before. “People

assume interrogations are about asking the right questions.” His voice is quiet, deliberate.

“They’re not. They’re about patience—about who breaks first.”

A smirk twitches at my lips, but it feels fragile. “You’ll be waiting a long time, then.”

“I don’t think so.”

My jaw tightens. The chair feels unyielding beneath me, my posture rigid despite the

discomfort creeping up my spine. Monroe had a knack for pushing without touch, prodding without words.

“You remember what I told you last time?” His voice is calm, almost conversational.

“I remember you twisting everything I said.”

A flicker of amusement shadows his face. “No. I told you—memory is convenient. People forget what makes them uncomfortable. But the truth? That stays. It festers.”

I shake my head, forcing a scoff. “You’re wasting your time. I didn’t do anything.”

“Do anything?” Monroe leans back slightly, stretching his arms. “No, you didn’t ‘do anything,’ did you?” His tone is unreadable. “You just… watched.”

“That’s not—”

Monroe lifts a hand in a slow, almost dismissive gesture. “You’ve convinced yourself that the past is buried, that you played no role worth remembering. But your mind doesn’t forget, not really. It just waits. It waits for the right trigger, the right moment to remind you.”

I shift. “You’re trying to mess with me.”

He exhales, as if unimpressed by my defiance. “Tell me, do you ever wake up gasping for air? Like you’re drowning in a memory you can’t quite grasp?”

A wave of memories flashes in an instant. “No.”

Monroe’s eyes flick downward, catching the tension in my hands before meeting mine again. “You ever feel like the walls are closing in? Like something’s pressing down on you, something you can’t name?”

My breath stutters, just for a second, but he catches it. His gaze sharpens, latching onto the crack before I can seal it.

“That’s not guilt,” Monroe murmurs, watching me carefully. “That’s your mind trying to wake you up.”

I shake my head sharply, my voice laced with forced amusement. “You sound like a second-rate therapist.”

Monroe doesn’t flinch. “Maybe. Or maybe you’re just afraid of what happens when the truth catches up to you.”

My breathing shallows, a sensation clawing at my throat—unseen yet suffocating.

Monroe notices.

He leans back, rubbing a hand along the stubble on his jaw. “It’s funny,” he muses, almost to himself. “The ones who are guilty always start remembering last.”

Something deep in my gut lurches. A shadow of a memory stirs—blurry, fractured, reaching for me. I shut my eyes, squeezing them tight.

No.

Not yet.

Monroe lets the silence linger, then leans forward, his voice almost gentle. “What is it that you’re so afraid to remember?”

My stomach clenches, a wave of nausea rising in my throat. I grit my teeth, forcing the sensation down. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Don’t you?” He raises an eyebrow. “Because I think you do. I think you’re starting to remember already.”

My heartbeat stumbles.

No.

He’s wrong.

Monroe watches me for a long moment. Then, almost too quietly, he says, “And when it comes back, I wonder—will it break you?”