The room smelled faintly of oil… and something burnt.
A single bulb flickered above, humming like it was tired of existing. Its weak light fell on one thing—and one thing only.
The man tied to the chair.
Ropes dug deep into his torso, tight enough to leave marks beneath the fabric. His hands were bound behind his back, wrists strained, fingers slightly numb. A blindfold covered his eyes, but it did nothing to hide the faint bruise forming along his cheek.
Blood lingered at the corner of his mouth.
Still—
He smiled.
Dressed in black from head to toe, he looked less like a victim and more like a man who had simply taken a wrong turn on his way to somewhere important.
Black coat.
Black suit.
Black tie.
Polished shoes.
And resting neatly on his head—a round black cap.
Three figures stood before him, swallowed by shadow.
They spoke in low voices, words overlapping, indistinct… unimportant.
To him, it was just noise.
Footsteps.
One of them stepped forward, just enough for the faint light to brush against the edge of his shoe.
"You crossed the line, detective."
A quiet scoff.
The man tilted his head slightly, as though trying to look at him through the blindfold.
"Says someone who won't even show me his face…"
A pause.
Then—
A soft chuckle.
"Still bold as ever," the figure replied, his voice calm—too calm. "Even now."
He stepped closer.
The air shifted.
"There are lines in this world," he continued, almost gently. "Lines men like you aren't meant to see… let alone cross."
He leaned in.
Close enough that his voice no longer echoed—but settled.
Quiet. Personal.
"And yet… you did."
The detective's smile didn't fade.
"If you're going to kill me," he said lightly, "at least do me the courtesy of sounding a little less dramatic."
Silence.
Then—
A faint exhale.
Amusement.
The figure straightened, adjusting his gloves with slow precision.
"Let's see," he said, turning away, "how long that composure of yours lasts."
He began walking.
The other two followed without question.
At the door, he stopped.
Just for a moment.
His head tilted slightly—barely a glance over his shoulder.
"Burn the body."
The words were effortless.
Casual.
Final.
The door creaked open.
Then shut.
Silence swallowed the room.
Behind the detective—
A presence shifted.
Heavy. Breathing slow.
A fourth man.
Larger than the others.
Quieter.
More… direct.
Click.
The metallic sound cut through the air as the pistol was cocked. The muzzle pressed cold against the detective's temple.
A beat.
Then—
"Whoa, whoa… easy there."
The detective let out a small breath, wincing slightly as the rope tightened against his ribs.
"First time holding one of those?"
No response.
"Because the way you're gripping it…" he continued, almost conversational, "you might hurt yourself before you hurt me."
Silence.
Then—
CRACK!
The gun slammed into his cheek.
His head snapped to the side.
Blood spilled a little more freely now.
For a moment—
Nothing moved.
Nothing spoke.
And then—
A quiet sigh.
"…Yeah."
A pause.
"Yep. This is me."
His tone shifted—lighter now, almost detached.
"Tied to a chair. Gun to my head."
A small breath escaped him.
"Not exactly how I pictured things going… but here we are."
Silence lingered.
"You're probably wondering how I got here."
A faint chuckle followed.
"…Yeah. Me too."
Another pause.
"Well—it all started with a case."
Silence.
"…Actually—no."
A soft exhale.
"That's a lie."
He shifted slightly against the ropes.
"Let me try that again."
A beat.
"It started with a morning."
Another pause.
"A good one, too. Coffee, quiet, no problems—"
He stopped himself.
"…No. Still not right."
A sigh.
"Truth is, I just like the idea of starting my story with a peaceful cup of coffee. Sounds nice, doesn't it?"
A faint smirk tugged at his lips despite the blood.
"Shame it never happened."
Silence.
Then—
"Let me take you back."
A pause.
"Not to the case."
Further.
"To where it actually began."
A breath.
"Oh—and for context…"
A slight tilt of his head.
"This is the 1930s."
Another pause.
"My name is Stephen O'Brian—"
He stopped.
"…No."
A small, almost embarrassed exhale.
"That's my father's name."
A beat.
"My name is O'Brian O'Brian."
Silence.
"Yeah."
"I know."
A faint chuckle slipped through.
"Trust me, I've had a lifetime to think about it."
Another breath.
"My father… wasn't the most imaginative man when it came to names."
A pause.
"Or maybe he just didn't like me very much."
Silence.
"Anyway…"
His voice softened—just slightly.
"I was born in 1905. Winter night. Cold enough to make you question your existence before you even understood what it meant."
A brief pause.
"Though, truth be told…"
A faint smirk returned.
"I didn't exactly keep track of the date myself."
Another pause.
"…Would've been difficult."
A small breath.
"Considering I had just been born."
Silence.
"Correction—*they* didn't keep track."
A beat.
"Yeah. That sounds better."
The room remained still.
The gun still pressed to his head.
The ropes still tight.
His situation—
Unchanged.
And yet—
"Anyway…"
His voice carried on, steady.
"That's where it begins."
Not with the chair.
Not with the gun.
But with a story—
He had every intention of finishing.