The officer studied Thomas for a moment, then glanced back at the growing crowd.
More people were speaking at once now. Hands waved. Voices overlapped.
"I saw him near the house that exploded."
"He was running before the sirens."
"He was with one of them, I swear."
The officer exhaled slowly. His tone changed—not harsh, but firm.
"Thomas," he said, reading the name from a small device in his hand, "based on multiple witness statements, we're going to have to detain you."
Thomas frowned slightly. "Detain… me?"
"It means you're coming with us for questioning," the officer replied. "You're not being charged right now, but you can't leave."
Another officer stepped closer, positioning himself just behind Thomas—not threatening, just careful.
Thomas swallowed. "I didn't do anything."
"I understand," the officer said, though his eyes showed uncertainty. "But there are too many accounts pointing to you being involved. We have to follow procedure."
A reporter leaned forward. "Is he under arrest?"
"For now, he's a person of interest being detained," the officer answered, turning slightly so his body blocked the camera's view of Thomas. "He's a minor."
That word—minor—shifted things again.
The officer looked back at Thomas. "Where are your parents or legal guardians?"
Thomas hesitated. "At home. I think."
"Names?"
He gave them quietly.
One of the officers spoke into his radio, requesting contact details. Another gently took Thomas by the arm—not rough, not kind either—and guided him toward a police vehicle parked nearby.
The crowd reacted instantly.
"So he is guilty."
"They're taking him away."
"I knew it."
Thomas said nothing as the car door opened. He slid into the back seat, the hard plastic cold against his skin. The door shut with a heavy click that echoed louder than it should have.
Inside the car, the noise from outside dulled, like the world had been pushed behind thick glass.
An officer leaned in through the open window. "You have the right to remain silent," he said calmly. "You also have the right to have a parent or guardian present during questioning. Do you understand?"
Thomas nodded.
"If at any point you feel uncomfortable, say so. We'll wait until your guardians arrive."
The window rolled up.
The car began to move.
As Liberty Street passed by outside, Thomas watched the flashing lights fade one by one. People still stood in clusters, talking, pointing, speculating.
By the time they reached the station, the story had already grown larger than him.
Inside, the building smelled faintly of coffee and paper. Thomas was led into a small room with a table and two chairs. The door was left open. An officer stayed nearby but did not speak.
Minutes passed. Then more.
Eventually, his adoptive parents arrived.
They didn't rush to him.
They stood near the doorway, faces tight with annoyance and disbelief.
The officer explained the situation carefully—witness reports, the explosions, Thomas's presence at the scene. He made it clear that no charges had been filed yet.
Thomas waited for them to ask him what happened.
They didn't.
His father crossed his arms. "So what did you do this time?"
Thomas looked down at the table.
The officer cleared his throat. "At this point, we're releasing him into your custody. But this incident is on record. If anything like this happens again—"
"I understand," his father cut in.
Thomas was allowed to leave.
But as he walked out of the station, he knew something had changed.
He had been detained.
Questioned.
Labeled.
And no explanation he gave would ever sound louder than the rumors already spreading.
When they reached Liberty Street, the night felt empty in a strange way.
The sirens were gone. The shouting had faded. The fire trucks were no longer there. What remained was damage—and fear.
Their front door still lay on the floor, split near the hinge. From the street, anyone could see straight into the house. A chair had been knocked over. A picture frame lay cracked near the wall. The place looked exposed, as if it had lost the right to be called safe.
Firemen had already put out the flames down the street. The black marks on the road were still there, dark and uneven. The smell of smoke clung to the air.
Most of the reporters had left, but not everyone had gone home. A few neighbors stood in small groups, whispering. Some hugged themselves tightly, shaking even though the danger was supposedly over.
"They said the street is guarded now," someone murmured.
"Experienced agents," another replied.
"That doesn't mean they won't come back."
Fear had settled deep. It wasn't leaving anytime soon.
Thomas followed his parents inside without a word.
The door was pushed aside and left there. No one bothered to lift it. His father locked the remaining bolt and turned slowly.
"What happened today," he said coldly, "is exactly what I warned you about."
"I didn't—" Thomas started.
"Enough."
The word cut sharply.
His father's face was tight with anger, not worry. Not relief.
"You embarrassed us," he continued. "Police. Witnesses. Cameras."
Thomas tried again. "They were wrong. I was trying to—"
"Silence."
His father didn't want reasons. He wanted control.
"You're grounded," he said. "Until I decide otherwise."
The punishment was cold. Precise. Merciless.
Thomas didn't scream. He didn't beg. He stood there and took it, jaw clenched, eyes fixed on the wall. When it was over, his body ached, and dark marks were already forming beneath his clothes.
His mother stood by, arms folded, face turned away.
No one asked if he was hurt.
Later, Thomas sat alone in his room, the door shut. His movements were slow now. Every breath reminded him of what had happened. The man who called himself Darian and all the junks he had said. Of course Thomas wouldn't believe him that easily. Though he wondered what those powerful men want from him.
From downstairs, the television was still on.
A calm voice filled the house.
"Earlier today, several unexplained incidents occurred across residential areas. Authorities have confirmed no fatalities, though multiple injuries were reported. Citizens are advised to remain indoors and report any strange activity immediately."
Images flashed on the screen—blurred videos, broken homes, flashing lights.
"…officials assure the public that the situation is under control."
Thomas stared at the wall.
He wondered how something could be under control when everything felt so wrong.
Outside, Liberty Street stayed awake long after midnight.
Inside, Thomas lay still, learning something he would never forget:
No matter what he did,
no matter the truth,
he would always be blamed first...