The interrogation room was sweltering. The air conditioning had been deliberately turned off, as if someone wanted to push the suspect just a little further. The metal table was the only cold thing in an otherwise suffocating atmosphere.
The suspect—white-haired and exuding arrogance—lounged in his chair like he owned the place. He leaned back casually, arms stretched out despite the cuffs clamped around his wrists. That smug, unbothered smile never left his face, as if he'd been brought in for stealing candy rather than kidnapping a mother and her baby.
"Well, detectives—or at least I think that's what you are—how long am I going to be here? I'm not really in a hurry. I could give you a couple of hours, but maybe you could make this place a little more pleasant, perhaps offer a few desserts to brighten the mood," Desmon said with his trademark good humor.
Being cuffed and interrogated without knowing why was, for him, pure entertainment. Opportunities like this didn't come every day. He could easily break the cuffs, slaughter every officer in the building, and walk out without resistance. But remembering certain words, he knew that would ruin the show.
Stabler narrowed his eyes, silent, his hands braced firmly on the table. Across from Desmon, Benson sat calmly, her sharp gaze capable of unsettling anyone without a single raised word.
It was a classic intimidation tactic. Unfortunately for them, it didn't work on the white-haired idiot sitting across from two seasoned detectives.
Desmon stared back as if waiting for instructions.
"So, is this a staring contest? Or is this the classic good cop, bad cop routine? Before we go any further, though, I'd really like to know what I'm being accused of. With my record, I honestly can't keep track of what I've done this time."
If every one of Desmon's crimes were compiled into a file, the document would grow by the second.
Stabler leaned toward him, voice low and firm.
"A woman. Her six-month-old son. Where are they?"
Desmon blinked, his expression blank with confusion.
"When exactly did I kidnap a woman and her kid?"
He searched his memory—it wasn't difficult; he remembered everything clearly—but came up empty.
"I have no idea. If we're talking about all the guys I've sent to sleep with the fishes, then sure, I'd have things to say. But a kidnapper? Not at all."
He spoke with complete indifference, casually confessing to crimes that would put anyone else behind bars for life. To the detectives, those were obvious attempts to distract.
After all, who would openly admit to multiple murders in a police interrogation? No one was that stupid—or that confident.
The only "common sense" Desmon followed came from words he remembered:
"You can do whatever you want."
Maybe the phrasing had been different, but the meaning stuck.
Benson slid a photograph across the table: a smiling mother holding her baby.
She wanted to push harder, like she always did. But against someone labeled a serial psychopath, she hesitated. Was it worth stooping to his level—or maybe, this time, it was?
Desmon glanced at the photo, curious what these people had to do with him. Still, for five hundred dollars, he was willing to play along.
"Maybe I know them, maybe I don't…"
Stabler slammed his fist against the table, the sound echoing through the room.
"Tell me where they are!"
The demon hunter—though "mercenary" fit him better at that moment—just shrugged.
"Do you always yell like that? You should take some anger management classes."
Benson stayed composed. She leaned forward, elbows resting on the table, her voice soft but razor-sharp.
"This isn't a game. Her name is Laura. Her son's name is James. She's probably begging for her life right now, praying for her baby's safety, and you're sitting here acting like you don't know anything."
Desmon raised an eyebrow.
"So that's their names. Well, what exactly do you need from me? If they're lost, you could call me—I'm sure I'd do a great job finding them."
His calm, detached tone could only belong to a psychopath… or to someone who truly had nothing to do with the crime.
Stabler began pacing slowly around the table, like a lion preparing to strike. He stopped behind Desmon, close enough that the heat of the room seemed to double.
"You know what makes me sick?" His voice dropped to a growl by Desmon's ear. "That a guy like you thinks he's in control. That he sits here with that smile while a child cries from hunger."
The interrogation was still in its early stages. Pushing too hard too fast would be counterproductive. And though the clock was ticking, Desmon was supposedly the one with the answers.
"Yeah… blah, blah, blah. What's next? You gonna turn off the lights? Skip me on dinner?"
Benson dropped another folder onto the table. This time, she opened it. Inside were photos of the house where they had found traces: signs of a struggle and bloodstains belonging to the victim's sister, who had died from multiple deep cuts. The image spoke for itself.
Faced with such a distressing scene, Desmon simply examined the evidence without the slightest sign of disturbance. It wasn't the first—or the last—murder case he had seen.
"I can tell that woman tried to defend herself and buy time for others to escape, but she was stabbed in the stomach, then several more times—as if they wanted her to feel as much pain as possible before dying," he said calmly.
After so many years in the business, he had become good at figuring things out. Had he been alone, he would never have learned so much—but luckily, he'd had a great mentor to guide him.
Stabler raised an eyebrow. Desmon had repeated exactly what the forensic experts had concluded. The only logical explanation was that he knew because he was responsible.
Benson stared at him, patient and focused, as if she shared Stabler's suspicion.
"We analyzed the entire scene. And not just that… we've got fingerprints, your DNA. No matter how much you try to deny it, we know it was you!"
Her voice slipped for a moment, losing its composure, but she quickly regained control.
Desmon looked at both detectives as if he were staring at a pair of idiots.
"Yeah, sure. Did you also find my letter to Santa Claus?"
There had been a time when he believed in Santa Claus, but not anymore. Then again, it wasn't like that same mythical guy would ever hire him for a complicated job, right?
Stabler slammed the table again, harder this time, making the papers tremble.
"Don't play with me! Every minute you waste here could be that baby's last!"
Desmon didn't even flinch. Everything they were saying was wrong. Besides, they had dragged him into the interrogation room the moment he arrived—no fingerprints taken, no DNA samples collected.
Benson lowered her voice, speaking as though to a tired boy. Judging by his appearance and demeanor, Desmon didn't look like a teenager. Good genes pass on whether you like it or not.
"It's not too late. No one else has to get hurt. Just tell us where they are."
"And what if I say I want to remain silent?"
Stabler leaned in so close that Desmon could feel his breath on the back of his neck.
"Then you'll be the monster who let a baby die. And I promise, not a single juror will see you as anything else."
Words that meant nothing to Desmon. A jury? Years in prison? The death penalty? Why should he care what a bunch of strangers thought?
He could walk out of even the most secure prison in the world whenever he got bored enough to do it. He might even find it amusing to watch the faces of those who tried to kill him, wondering how this kid just wouldn't die.
"You should be grateful I'm playing along. Otherwise, it'd be way too boring for everyone else. So tell me, is that really the best you've got? You two look like you walked straight out of some mediocre detective show."
Stabler crossed his arms, losing what little patience he had left. Benson watched him with dangerous calm—she wasn't trying to break Desmon; she was waiting for him to break himself.
Being polite and composed wasn't working. With every word, they were sinking deeper into this lunatic's game.
"We've let you play," Benson said slowly. "But this isn't a game anymore. There's a dead woman, another kidnapped, and a baby. And a father out there waiting for his family to come home. Still think this is funny?"
"Me? Not at all. I'm a man of refined taste. That's not my style of work—I'm more direct. Unless the client specifically wants the other party to suffer and beg for their life. In that case, I analyze the situation and make a decision. I'm not some mindless monster, you know?"
He spoke like a true professional at his craft—after all, he chose which jobs to take.
Stabler stepped closer, face-to-face now. One more step and he'd lose what little composure he had left. He wanted to punch this idiot until he confessed—but he knew it wouldn't work, no matter how badly he wanted to.
"Benson already told you their names. Laura. James. Can you say them without laughing?"
"I'm good with languages, even though I never finished school. You learn faster through practice."
Desmon was sharp, even without formal education.
"Stop talking nonsense and answer!" Benson finally snapped. "There are witnesses! Cameras caught your car leaving that house! You want to do something good with your miserable life? Tell us where they are!"
Desmon shook his head, almost feeling sorry for her.
"If that's how you solve cases, I'm sure most of the time people end up dead."
He had solved kidnapping cases before, though no one should ask how he got confessions—or how he found the culprits. If it was efficient and worked, there was no need to change it.
But since this wasn't his job, he didn't care.
"What do I get if I tell you the location? A better deal and maybe something to eat?"
Both detectives thought they were making progress. They could promise him anything—even if they had no intention of keeping it.
"We'll talk to the DA. You'll avoid life without parole—but don't expect to walk out before you're sixty," Stabler said, arms crossed.
A fair deal, any way you looked at it.
"Add some food—maybe a couple of burgers—and we've got a deal," the young mercenary said with a cheerful grin.
Who turned down free food? Sixty years in prison for a couple of burgers—what a bargain.
"Fine, you'll have it. Now tell me, where are they?" Benson tried to sound calm, but that was easier said than done.
"Search the abandoned building across from the restaurant with the big M. You can't miss it—it's close to where you arrested me."
Without another word, the detectives watching from behind the glass ordered officers to search the location.
"All units, head to the given address. There may be accomplices—be ready for anything."
Once Cragen gave the order, Munch and Fin left immediately with several patrol cars.
"What do you think? Is he telling the truth?"
Leaving Desmon alone in the interrogation room, the two detectives stepped out to monitor the situation.
"I'm not sure. His attitude's strange—like we're not even speaking the same language."
"He's a psychopath. He doesn't care about anyone else. Let him rot in prison for the rest of his life."
Cragen turned his gaze toward the interrogation room, and at that exact moment, Desmon looked back at him. It was as if he knew he was being watched—even though the one-way glass should have made that impossible. The young mercenary's senses were sharp enough to notice when someone was observing him.
His sight was keen enough to avoid areas with hidden cameras, too. If they didn't see you coming, the job was easier—though he, in particular, usually announced his entrance.
"Let's hope he's telling the truth. I want this case wrapped up as soon as possible—and with a good ending."
Minutes passed. Police sirens echoed as officers entered the old structure. They spread out quickly, weapons drawn, searching every corner… but found nothing.
It was just an abandoned building.
Maybe the victims had been moved, but everything suggested no one had entered that place in years.
"You bastard! You lied to us!"
Stabler burst into the interrogation room, furious, grabbing Desmon by the collar.
"I'm still waiting for my burgers," Desmon replied.
"The only thing you'll get is the death penalty if anything happened to that woman and her son!"
"Oh, look at me shaking. Although, you're the one trembling, aren't you? Do you have a family? Feeling a little too close to home—wondering what you'd do if it were your wife and kids next time? Keep holding me, and I promise I'll make it happen."
Desmon's sinister grin spread across his face. No one could doubt this man's ability to act.
Stabler was about to hit him—an act that would've ruined his career—but Benson stopped him just in time. Without realizing it, she'd saved his life once again.
"That's enough. You're just playing into his game. And you—" she glared at Desmon, "you're not leaving here until you talk. Believe me, you'll have nothing, and you'll rot in prison for the rest of your life."
"I'll walk out of here dancing, I promise. But this is getting interesting, so go on."
There was no guilt or remorse in his voice—and everyone could tell.
…
"That's enough for today. I'm tired," Desmon yawned, rubbing his eyes and settling into Shizuka's couch.
"Wait, you can't stop there! Keep going—what happened next?"
Like someone engrossed in her favorite drama, Shizuka refused to let Desmon go to sleep without hearing the ending.
-A weekly manga? she thought, comparing the way he told stories.
"I got arrested, and I'm still serving life in a New York prison. I'm going to sleep."
"I see… Yeah, right! Like that's possible!"
Unless the white-haired boy in front of her was some kind of clone, that couldn't be true.
"I had a rough day with the cops—and a couple of troublesome girls who tried to jump off a rooftop on their own. I'll tell you the rest later."
Now that he remembered that moment more vividly, he realized it hadn't ended well. Back then, Desmon had been even more indifferent toward others. He still was, in a way—but he'd become a little more considerate, or so he'd learned during his time in the States.
"Fine. But you're telling me the rest over breakfast," Shizuka said, still eager.
"If I tell you before breakfast, you'll lose your appetite. And if I tell you after, you'll probably throw up," he muttered, closing his eyes and drifting off to sleep—leaving the question of what exactly happened to the kidnapped woman and her son unanswered.
But judging from the tone of the young demon hunter, the ending hadn't been pleasant.
–Wait a second, what about what happened to him today?
The new story had completely derailed the topic, and by the time Shizuka realized it, it was too late to ask. She sighed, her curiosity gnawing at her until morning.
At least tomorrow would be Sunday—plenty of time to talk things through.
But that's a story for another time.