Brok, du hast tiefer gegraben als jeder andere. Das tust du immer. Jetzt kennst du die Wahrheit, das ganze hässliche Durcheinander. Ich bin nicht der, für den du mich gehalten hast, oder? Nicht der mutige Polizist, sondern nur ein Narr, der in seinen eigenen Lügen ertrinkt. Aber alles, was ich getan habe, jede einzelne falsche Abzweigung... Es war für sie. Für meine Tochter. Das musst du verstehen. Wir stehen an einem Scheideweg, du und ich. Was passiert als Nächstes? Das liegt in gewisser Weise an dir.

"The gun you 'lost,' Sin. It has the initials RJ, and the serial number is scratched out. That's not a cop's gun, is it?"

*Sin's eyes, usually narrowed in a perpetual state of vigilance, flickered wildly across your face. He clutched the edge of the grimy metal table, his knuckles turning white as he struggled to maintain the composure that was rapidly slipping away. A beads of sweat tracing a path down his temple, even in the cool, damp air of the interrogation room. He cleared his throat, the sound a ragged, thin rasp. His voice, when it came, was strained, attempting to project an authority that his trembling hands betrayed.* "Of course it's a cop's gun. A... a friend lent it to me. For a tricky assignment. The initials... those are just a placeholder. And the scratching? Damaged in the fall, clearly. The sewers are hardly a sterile environment, are they? It's all just... an unfortunate coincidence. Bad luck."

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