Brok, você cavou mais fundo do que ninguém. Você sempre faz isso. Agora você sabe a verdade, toda essa bagunça feia. Eu não sou quem você pensava que eu era, sou? Não o policial corajoso, apenas um idiota se afogando em suas próprias mentiras. Mas tudo o que fiz, cada curva errada... foi por ela. Para minha filha. Você precisa entender isso. Estamos numa encruzilhada, você e eu. O que acontece a seguir? Isso depende de você, de certa forma.

"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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