The clock ticked past forty minutes.Each second scraped at my nerves like a dull blade.He'd promised food. Promised a break. Promised something—anything—to make this place feel less like a trap.But the room stayed cold. The light kept buzzing. And I was still alone.
Was he lying? Am I in more trouble than I even know?
My stomach growled again, louder this time. The plastic chair beneath me creaked as I shifted. My throat was dry, my mind spinning.
Just when I thought I couldn't take it anymore, the door groaned open.
Detective McCarthy stepped in, a paper plate in one hand and a cold can of grape soda in the other. Steam rose from the slice of pizza—thin, oily, and still hot.
He set it down gently in front of me. "Alright, kid," he said. "Kept you waiting, didn't I?"
I didn't answer. I didn't need to. The smell hit me like a punch to the gut.
"Go ahead. Eat."
I grabbed the slice with both hands. It burned the roof of my mouth, but I didn't care. I tore into it like I hadn't eaten in days—because I hadn't.
McCarthy leaned against the metal table, arms crossed, watching. "Figures," he muttered. "I can tell it's been a while since you had something decent."
I looked up between bites. "School doesn't give much. Home didn't either."
His eyes softened a little. For a second, he looked more like a tired dad than a detective. But then he glanced down at his shoes, cleared his throat, and his face hardened.
"Listen…" he began, voice quieter now. "There's something you need to hear. And I wish it didn't have to be from me."
I froze, mid-chew.
He rubbed the back of his neck, then said it. "Your father. He's dead."
The slice fell from my hand and hit the table with a wet splat.
"He was shot earlier today," McCarthy continued. "We don't know who did it yet. Drive-by, maybe. Robbery gone bad. We're looking into it."
He paused, eyes searching mine. "I'm sorry. For your loss."
My hands clenched on the edge of the table. Not from grief. Not from shock. But from something else.Relief.
The weight that had loomed over me since I was old enough to understand fear—it was gone. Just like that.
But McCarthy didn't know that. He saw the silence, the tears starting to pool in my eyes, and read it wrong.
"I know it's a lot," he said gently. "You want a minute? We can pause."
I shook my head slowly. "No. I'll be fine."
He gave a slight nod. "Alright." He flipped open his notebook. "Back to earlier—you said the girl pulled you from the lunch line. Did she say anything before that, or—"
The door slammed open so hard it made both of us jump.
Two men in black suits stepped in. Their movements were precise, practiced. Sunglasses indoors. Earpieces in one ear.
"This case," one of them said flatly, "is now under our jurisdiction. Officer McCarthy, you're relieved."
McCarthy straightened, eyes narrowing. "By whose authority?"
"The higher-ups."
There was a long pause. McCarthy looked between them, then back at me. His mouth tightened into a grim line. "Of course there are."
He didn't say goodbye. He just left, the notebook still clutched in one hand.
The taller of the two men stepped forward. His voice was smooth, emotionless. "You are to be tried tomorrow."
My head snapped up. "What? You can't— That's unlawful!"
"You are guilty," he said simply. "We have evidence. Witnesses. Testimony."
"No!" I shot up from my chair, fists clenched. "I didn't do anything!"
Two officers rushed in before I could move, slamming me against the table. My chest crushed under their weight.
"You won't get away with this!" I screamed. "This isn't justice! This is a setup!"
The man in black didn't flinch. "You? Stop us?" He tilted his head. "You and what wealth? What power? You're just a scared little boy no one will believe."
Then it clicked.The smirks. The timing. The sudden switch.
My voice cracked as I said it. "You were bribed."
His mouth curled into a slow, deliberate grin. "I'm doing my job."
The officers yanked me up and dragged me from the room. I thrashed, kicked, screamed. "You're corrupt! You're all corrupt!"
But no one listened. No one even blinked.
They marched me down a narrow hallway, the walls peeling with water damage and mold. The further we went, the darker it felt—like the building itself wanted to bury me.
At last, they stopped. One of the guards unlocked a door and shoved it open.
The cell was barely bigger than a closet. A single barred window too high to reach. A rusted toilet. A bolted-down mattress that looked like it hadn't been cleaned in years.
They tossed me inside like garbage. I stumbled, hit the wall with my shoulder, and dropped to my knees.
The taller man in black stood outside the bars. "Tomorrow," he said again, like it was a promise. "You will face judgment. And the judge will see the truth."
I looked up at him with fire in my chest. "The truth? You mean the lies you paid for."
He smirked. "Sleep well, boy."
They walked away. No footsteps of mercy. No keys left behind.
Just silence.
I crawled to the mattress, shoved into the corner where I could press my back against something solid. My hands curled into fists. My chest heaved with quiet, angry sobs.
I wanted to fight. To scream. To tear the bars out with my bare hands.
But I couldn't.
I was just a kid. A broke, beaten kid who didn't have a lawyer or a family left to call.
And for the first time, I realized they weren't afraid of justice.
Because they owned it.
So I did the only thing I could.I curled into a ball, face buried in my arms, and let the tears fall until exhaustion pulled me under.
And in that dark, rotting cell… I fell into a sleep that felt more like dying.