Klaus sank into the cold, metallic chair, the clang of steel echoing through the sterile interrogation room. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, humming like the wings of some mechanical wasp waiting to sting. His heart pounded against his ribcage, heavy with disbelief. They believed him. Reginald Thorne — polished businessman, beloved philanthropist, grieving father. The perfect mask. A titan of influence with connections on speed dial and his name engraved on a few charity plaques across the city. And who was Klaus? A half-naked, wounded man dragged in by officers who didn’t know they had a billionaire in their midst. His body was laced with strange scars and a fox tattoo. His tale — absurd, incoherent to them. Something out of a dime-store thriller. The kind of story that gets you a padded cell, not justice. The system had failed him once. And now, it was happening again. But Klaus Whitlock wasn’t the kind of man to stay down. No, not anymore. The world had tried to e

The tension in the precinct was thick as smoke. It hung in the air, pressing down on the room with the weight of a thousand unspoken truths. Detective Donovan stood tall, his coat draped over his shoulders like a curtain hiding the lies he so carefully managed. The cold fluorescent lights above flickered intermittently, adding a surreal quality to the moment, as if even the light itself was uncertain of the truth in this room. Across from him, sitting at the interrogation table with his hands cuffed but a posture so relaxed it could have been a throne, sat Klaus Whitlock. His eyes were icy and calculating, his gaze like a hawk's, taking in every detail, every nuance of the room and its occupants. He seemed utterly unfazed by the cuffs, the sterile environment, or the fact that his freedom had just been torn away. Donovan's voice broke the silence, smooth and practiced. “You look comfortable, Whitlock. It’s almost as if you’re used to being in this situation.” Klaus didn’t answer i