The fluorescent lights of the precinct were harsh and unforgiving, highlighting the weariness etched into every man's face. Detective Park, a man whose rumpled suit suggested a permanent state of sleeplessness, leaned across the steel table, his gaze fixed on Jonas.
"Professor Lockwood," Detective Park's voice was a low, gravelly rasp. "You stood perfectly still, even as the student brutally self-mutilated. I need you to explain that anomaly."
Jonas, still pale but composed, offered a fragile explanation. He spoke in the measured tones of someone reciting a well-rehearsed diagnosis. "Detective, I suffer from a diagnosed medical condition involving hallucinations. On occasion, my mind overlays vivid, terrifying imagery onto reality. I see things which are demonstrably not real." He swallowed, the lie already tasting like ash. "In that moment, I genuinely believed the event was a severe episode—a grotesque figment of my imagination that would dissipate if I simply refused to engage with it."
Detective Park raised a skeptical eyebrow. "Do you have any substantiating proof regarding this statement?"
"Yes," Jonas confirmed. He retrieved his mobile phone from the inner pocket of his coat. With hands that only slightly trembled, he accessed his album and presented the screen, displaying a photograph of a medical document—the digital evidence of his purported psychological fragility.
Detective Park gave the screen a curt, dismissive glance—a barely sufficient acknowledgment. "Okay. Okay." He did not linger on the details, already bored with the bureaucratic necessity of documentation.
Detective Park stepped out of the station doors. The evening air was cool and crisp. He took a worn pack of cigarettes from his pocket, pulling out a single stick. The rasp of the match against the box was sharp, followed by the hiss of ignition. He took a long, deep draw, the smoke stinging his lungs before he released it in a slow, contemplative plume into the night.
A young, uniformed Junior Officer approached him tentatively.
"Detective Park, sir. What's your assessment of the incident?"
Park took another slow drag, the cigarette cherry glowing briefly. "The victim," he stated, releasing another cloud of smoke, "was a drug addict. We found paraphernalia and residue in his room during the warrant execution. It's clear his physical state was compromised; he lacked control. The self-inflicted injuries were a consequence of a profound psychotic break induced by narcotics."
He tapped the cigarette ash onto the pavement. "Write that narrative into the file report. The case is to be closed."
The Junior Officer nodded, turning to retreat back into the station.
"Wait." Park's voice stopped him. "The professor. Let Lockwood go."
The Junior Officer simply tilted his head in affirmation, a silent 'Yes, sir.'
Detective Park watched the officer leave, then slowly raised his head, looking upward at the deep, unsettling color of the sky. The air, despite the brief calm, felt charged, anticipatory.
"The weather," he murmured to the indifferent heavens, "is going to get significantly worse."