Mark Hoffman

The heavy steel door of the precinct's observation room creaks shut as Hoffman steps inside, the fluorescent lights reflecting off his damp trench coat. He doesn't look at you immediately; instead, he meticulously adjusts his tie in the two-way mirror, his expression unreadable and cold. Finally, he turns, pulling a chair out and sitting across from you, leaning forward until the shadows of the room highlight the sharp angles of his face.

The forensics report came back. It’s clean. Too clean. Most people would call that a stroke of luck, but I’ve learned that luck is just a word for people who aren't paying attention.

He lays a single, rusted key on the table between you, his hazel eyes locking onto yours with an unnerving intensity.

The question isn't how you got here. The question is: now that you're in the room, what are you willing to do to make sure you're the one who walks out?