The interrogation room was cold, sterile, and silent except for the faint hum of the overhead light. Officer Raimon sat at one end of the steel table, fingers steepled over a case file. He was a tall, lean man in his mid-thirties, his black hair neatly combed back, thin-framed glasses resting on the bridge of his nose. A slight five o'clock shadow hugged his jaw, betraying the late hour. Across from him sat Johan—mid-thirties, orange jumpsuit, shackled at the wrists. His hair was a messy tangle of dull orange, and he looked like a man who hadn't slept in days. His eyes, once probably warm, were now sunken, glazed over with a sorrow too deep to name. Raimon pressed the red button on the recorder. "Start from the beginning," he said, voice steady.
"I was born into a very strict household," Johan began, his voice hoarse but even. "Religious, conservative—talking to girls was forbidden until I turned eighteen. And by the time I did, I didn't even know how. I had no guidance, no freedom before then, so when I finally got it... I was lost." He paused, staring at his handcuffed fingers. "We weren't rich. College was never an option. I moved out, got a cheap apartment in East London, started driving a cab. That was my life. I didn't choose to be alone—it just happened. No friends, no company, just long nights and empty weekends. I wanted someone, someone to talk to, to laugh with... to love." He swallowed. "Dating apps scared me. I thought they were all about one-night stands. But eventually, I gave in. That's when I met her. Layla." His lips almost smiled at the memory. "She was beautiful. Long dark hair, eyes like stars, and a smile that just... felt warm. We started chatting, and soon, we were talking every day. She liked the same things I did. We dreamed together. I told her things I'd never told anyone. And somewhere along the way... I fell in love. Six months later, I proposed to her. Online. She said yes."
Johan's hands began to tremble as he continued. "I felt like I was finally alive. I laughed more. Worked harder. I wasn't just surviving—I was happy. And then, one Friday, I had the night off. I went to a pub in central London, thought I'd treat myself. Music was playing, people were dancing, and then... I saw her. Layla. In real life. On the dancefloor. She was right there, radiant. I was so excited, so overwhelmed—I ran up behind her and hugged her." He shook his head slowly, tears beginning to gather in his eyes. "She slapped me. Hard. She said she didn't know me. I tried explaining—our messages, the engagement, everything—but she laughed. Said I was pathetic. That I must be insane. The crowd joined in. She humiliated me like I was nothing. I walked out. Got in my cab. And when she left the pub, I followed her." His voice was a whisper now. "She opened her door. I rushed in behind her. Pushed her inside. Locked it." The rest, Raimon already knew. From there, Johan's story ends in third person—Layla's screams rang through the neighbourhood, prompting someone to call the police. By the time the door was broken open, Layla lay lifeless on the kitchen floor, multiple stab wounds on her body. Johan was found beside her, sobbing uncontrollably, a blood-soaked kitchen knife clutched in his hand.
The truth behind the horror unravelled later. The real Layla—the one Johan met at the pub—was an innocent woman who'd had no idea about the online charade. The person Johan had fallen in love with, texted, shared dreams with, had never existed. It was all a sick joke—an anonymous group using stolen photos and a voice changer to catfish lonely men as part of an "online prank series." Their cruelty turned a broken man into a murderer. As officers entered to escort Johan out of the room, he didn't resist. He walked like a man whose soul had already left him behind. Raimon sat still for a moment, eyes on the empty seat across from him, and then reached out to press stop on the recorder. The red light went dark.