I'm not!"
A pause.
Then the figure spoke again.
"If not me... someone else would have done it."
The pain in his hands from the metal handcuffs was nothing. Nor was the pain in his back from sitting in the same position, in the same chair, for more than a day—
To be exact, 36 hours.
The figure spoke into a small mic welded to the metal table—
One of those cold, dented ones used for prisoners.
His face wasn't clearly visible now. But his eyes—
They were locked on the mirror in front of him.
"Is it for them?..."
"You're insane."
He hadn't received a single response in all these hours.
Just silence.
"How many times will you do this?"
A breath.
"Tell him I won't stop."
"Tyrant."
It was obvious—
This wasn't his first time here.
Who else would dare speak like that, in a detention cell?
---
On the other side of the mirror, several chairs were placed irregularly.
All were empty.
Except one.
A single police officer sat slouched, almost asleep, head resting on his hand, lost in his own world of problems.
On the desk in front of him:
A half-filled cup of coffee
A walkie-talkie
His badge
A dark blue police cap
A telephone
A microphone
And an open file
The first thing anyone would notice in that file—
A photograph.
A man in his 40s.
Long, unkempt beard.
Hair long, but not too long—messy.
Heavy eyebrows.
And a scar cutting across his face.
He looked anything but cooperative.
Clearly, the photo had been taken by force.
The name written in bold letters:
"Azrael Morthan."
The same man now inside the cell.
But in far worse condition.
Azrael leaned back slowly, resting his head against the hanging lamp above—
It was lowered almost to eye level, glowing a dull yellow.
---
7:27 PM
The hour hand had long passed.
Now, it was exactly 1:15 AM.
Clack.
The metallic sound of a door unlocking echoed from the speaker inside the cell.
Azrael stirred—still in cuffs.
He couldn't see who had entered, but he heard someone tap the mic.
A voice came through, cold and clear.
Another officer now sat at the microphone.
Behind him, the sleepy one—"Justin", as his badge read—stood upright, cap now placed properly on his head.
Voice from speaker:
"This is your last warning. We're going to let you go... but you will apologize publicly—for spreading propaganda. And you'll resign from your writing career."
"Tomorrow. Friday. 4th of May."
Azrael didn't say a word.
His head hung to one side like a drunkard.
But he nodded—slowly.
The officer behind the mic seemed pleased.
He had done what he was sent to do.
---
8th May, 1984
Night.
Thunder.
Heavy rain terrorized the streets.
In a small apartment—fifth or sixth floor of an aging building—Azrael sat at his writing desk.
It was placed directly in front of a window, giving him a full view of the street below.
The sound of rain tapped softly on the glass—
a strange kind of melody.
A small candle flickered beside him.
Its dim light was just enough to make out the ink on the paper.
Azrael sat still.
His right hand cradled his head.
In his left, an ink pen hovered, half-frozen in place.
He was deep in thought, eyes scanning the papers before him.
Boom—⚡
A flash of lightning lit the entire street.
Just for a second.
And in that second—
A shadow.
A man in a long, black coat.
Standing alone in the rain-soaked street.
But Azrael didn't see him.
He was still lost in his words.
Still writing.
Still refusing to stop.