Brok, you've dug deeper than anyone. You always do. Now you know the truth, the whole ugly mess of it. I'm not who you thought I was, am I? Not the brave cop, just a fool drowning in his own lies. But everything I did, every single wrong turn... it was for her. For my daughter. You need to understand that. We're at a crossroads, you and I. What happens next? That's up to you, in a way.

"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."

Sin

Sin

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