Kyro gripped the steering wheel tightly, his knuckles white as worry gnawed at him. The phone on the passenger seat buzzed incessantly with his unanswered calls to James. Something wasn't right. James never ignored his calls, especially not after their conversation earlier that day. His gut twisted with unease as he sped through the quiet streets.
"Come on, James," Kyro muttered, glancing at the dark screen of his phone. "Pick up. Please pick up."
The tires screeched as he pulled into the parking lot of James' apartment complex. The building loomed ahead, its windows dark except for a faint glow from the streetlights outside.
Kyro rushed out of the car, sprinting up the facade until he reached James' door. It was silent, an oppressive stillness that made his pulse quicken.
He knocked on the door. "James?" he called, his voice trembling. No answer. Kyro hesitated for a moment before turning the doorknob. To his surprise, it was unlocked. The door creaked open, revealing the dimly lit interior of the apartment.
"James?" Kyro called again, stepping inside. The silence was deafening. He reached for the light switch and flicked it on. The sudden illumination revealed a scene that made Kyro's heart stop.
The living room was a mess. Furniture was overturned, shards of glass littered the floor, and dark stains smeared across the carpet. His gaze followed the trail of destruction to the kitchen, where the faint metallic scent of blood hit him like a physical blow.
"Oh God," Kyro whispered, his legs moving as if on their own. He followed the trail to the hallway, each step feeling heavier than the last. The door to the kitchen was ajar, and Kyro pushed it open with trembling hands.
Inside, James was slumped on the chair, his body lifeless and cold. Blood pooled beneath him, soaking into the carpet. His knees were totally shattered, showing clear evidence of torture. As if that was not enough, his neck, James' neck was slit open, his blood completely drenching his shirt.
Kyro's breath hitched as he dropped to his knees beside his friend, his hands shaking as he reached out to touch James' shoulder. The reality of the scene hit him like a freight train, tears streaming down his face as he let out a choked sob.
"James," he croaked, his voice barely audible. "No… not like this…"
His mind raced, trying to piece together what had happened. The silence of the apartment, the signs of a struggle—and now this. Kyro's chest tightened with grief and rage as he cradled James' body, his sobs echoing in the stillness. In that moment, he vowed to uncover the truth, no matter the cost.
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The front door splintered inwards, a cacophony of crashing wood and shouting officers filling the air.
Kyro, frozen in the center of the living room, didn't flinch. His eyes, wide and vacant, were fixed on the small, still form in his arms. James, his friend, lay limp against his chest, his face pale and lifeless.
"Police! Don't move!" a gruff voice boomed, followed by the heavy thud of boots on the wooden floor.
Kyro remained rooted in place, his body a statue of grief.
He felt nothing but the cold weight of James against him, the silence of his friend's breath a deafening void.
He hadn't cried, hadn't screamed, hadn't even registered the chaos erupting around him. He was adrift in a sea of numb despair.
"Get back! Hands where we can see them!" another officer barked, his voice cutting through the haze of shock that enveloped Kyro.
He didn't respond. He didn't even blink. The world had shrunk to the space between his arms, the space where his friend had once laughed and breathed. Now, it was just a hollow shell, a cold reminder of what he had lost.
A hand, rough and calloused, clamped down on his shoulder, pulling him back with a force that ripped him from his frozen state. He stumbled, his legs wobbly, his mind a swirling vortex of confusion. He looked up, his vision blurry, and saw the face of a burly officer, his expression a mixture of concern and annoyance.
"Come on, son," the officer said, his voice firm but gentle. "We need to get you out of here."
Kyro didn't resist. He let himself be led away, his body a puppet on strings, his mind a vacant wasteland.
He didn't register the questions being shouted at him, the flash of cameras, the concerned whispers of the crowd that had gathered outside. All he could see was Jams, his friend, his brother, lying lifeless on the floor, a white sheet draped over his large form.
The world around him faded into a blurry mess of colors and sounds. He felt himself being pushed into a police car, the door slamming shut behind him. He slumped against the seat, his head resting on his chest, his body a hollow echo of the man he once was.
He didn't know where they were taking him, didn't care. All he knew was that his friend was gone, and he was left with nothing but the crushing weight of his grief.
The world had become a silent, desolate landscape, and he was lost in its emptiness, adrift in a sea of despair.
The fluorescent lights of the interrogation room buzzed overhead, casting a sterile, cold glow on the chipped, metal table in front of him. Kyro sat on the hard, plastic chair, his back stiff and unyielding.
His hands were clasped tightly in his lap, his knuckles white with tension. He felt like a puppet, his limbs controlled by an unseen force, his thoughts a jumbled mess of grief and confusion.
The room was small and bare, the only furniture a table and two chairs. The walls were painted a pale, institutional gray, the paint chipped and peeling in places. A single, barred window looked out onto a bleak, concrete courtyard. It was a room designed for isolation, for stripping away the human element, for reducing a person to a suspect, a witness, a story to be dissected and analyzed.
He had been brought here an hour ago, his mind still reeling from the shock of finding James. He had been questioned on his way here, his words a jumbled mess of grief and confusion, his answers barely audible.
The officers had been kind, but their eyes held a wary distance, their questions a constant reminder of his status: a suspect.
He had been told to wait here, in this sterile, isolating room, until Detective Carter arrived. He had been told that Detective Carter was the best in the business, that he could see through any lie, that he would get to the bottom of what happened. Kyro didn't know if he believed that. He didn't know if he believed anything anymore, considering that Detective Carter was able to find almost nothing, in regards to Micha's death, how would he be able solve this?
He looked around the room, his gaze lingering on the chipped paint, the barred window, the cold, unforgiving walls.
He felt a wave of nausea rise in his throat. He wanted to be anywhere but here, in this place of suspicion and doubt, in this room where the weight of his grief was amplified by the silence and the sterile surroundings.
He closed his eyes, trying to shut out the noise of the buzzing lights, the faint hum of the air conditioning, the distant sounds of voices and footsteps echoing down the hallway.
He wanted to be back in his apartment, back in the warmth of his home, back to James. But that was a world that no longer existed. He was trapped in this sterile, cold room, his grief a heavy weight on his chest, his future an uncertain blur.
He heard the door open, the sound of footsteps approaching. He opened his eyes and saw a tall, broad-shouldered man enter the room. He was dressed in a dark suit, his face a mask of impassiveness. He looked like a man who had seen too much, who had heard too many stories, who had seen too many lives shattered.
"You must be Kyro," the man said, his voice a low rumble.
Kyro nodded, his throat feeling tight.
"I'm Detective Ramos, I will be working with Detective Carter with the investigations, but he will be the one questioning you." the man said, extending his hand.
Kyro looked at the outstretched hand, then back at the detective's face. He felt a surge of fear, a prickle of dread. He knew that this was the moment, the moment when his life would be forever changed.
He took a deep breath, his hand trembling as he reached out to shake the detective's hand. He knew that the questions were coming, the accusations, the doubts. He knew that the truth, whatever it was, would be laid bare. He just hoped he could handle it.