Days passed in a blur of interrogations and cold, dark cells. They didn't beat me—at least, not physically. The real torture was psychological, a constant barrage of accusations designed to break my spirit. They accused me of spreading dissent, of undermining the war effort, of betraying my country. But all I had ever tried to do was tell the truth, to shine a light on the shadows that cloaked our lives.
I spent hours reflecting on my past, on the events that had led me here. I thought of my father, a stern man who wore his military service like a badge of honor. He'd never understood my decision to leave the army, to turn my back on what he saw as my duty. We hadn't spoken in years, our relationship fractured by differing ideals. But now, sitting in a cell, I could almost hear his voice, stern and disappointed, echoing in my mind.
"You had everything," he would say. "Why did you throw it all away?"
The truth was, I had seen too much. I had watched comrades die for reasons I couldn't justify, had seen civilians caught in the crossfire of a war that cared nothing for human life. The turning point came during a mission that went horribly wrong—a routine operation that turned into a massacre. We were supposed to secure a village suspected of harboring enemy forces. But what we found were families, terrified and unarmed. Orders were given, shots were fired, and by the end of the day, the village was in ruins. I never fired a single shot, but I was complicit all the same.
That night, as I sat among the smoldering remains of what had once been a home, I knew I could no longer be part of it. I left the military shortly after, a decision that cost me the respect of my peers and the love of my father. But I couldn't stay silent. I turned to journalism, hoping that my words could make a difference. Yet the more I wrote, the more I realized how deeply the war had infiltrated every aspect of society. Even the truth was a casualty.
The guards often left me alone for hours, which gave me too much time to think. I reflected on the knight's story—the weight of his sword, the pain in his eyes. I wondered if he ever questioned his own decisions, if he had ever felt the crushing guilt of being a pawn in a game he didn't understand. Like him, I had followed orders, convinced that I was doing what was right. But now, all I had were regrets.
One day, after what felt like an eternity, they released me without explanation. Maybe they had tired of me, or maybe they had bigger targets to chase. I stepped back into the world, free but more lost than ever. The city was unchanged, still shrouded in the fog of war, but I felt different. I was not the same man who had been arrested days before. I was tired—tired of fighting, tired of questioning, tired of the endless cycle of violence.
I returned to the streets, wandering aimlessly until I found myself back at the old building with the mural of the knight. It was fenced off now, marked for demolition. I stood there for a long time, staring at the knight.