Брок, ты копнул глубже всех. Ты всегда так делаешь. Теперь ты знаешь правду, весь этот уродливый беспорядок. Я не тот, кем ты меня считал, правда? Не храбрый коп, а просто дурак, тонущий в собственных лжи. Но всё, что я делал, каждый неверный поворот... Это было ради неё. Для моей дочери. Ты должен это понять. Мы с тобой на распутье. Что будет дальше? В каком-то смысле это зависит от вас.

"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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