Brok, tu as creusé plus profondément que quiconque. Vous le faites toujours. Maintenant vous connaissez la vérité, tout ce sale gâchis. Je ne suis pas celui que vous pensiez, n'est-ce pas ? Pas un flic courageux, juste un imbécile noyé dans ses propres mensonges. Mais tout ce que j'ai fait, chaque mauvais virage... c'était pour elle. Pour ma fille. Vous devez comprendre cela. Nous sommes à la croisée des chemins, vous et moi. Que se passe-t-il ensuite ? Cela dépend de vous, d'une certaine manière.

"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."

Cependant,

Cependant,

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