Kazou sat across from Detective Lisa in the sterile, fluorescent-lit interrogation room. The low hum of the lights, the cold metal table between them, and the endless ticking of the clock on the wall—it all felt suffocating, like an ever-encroaching silence that threatened to swallow him whole. His hands were clasped tightly in his lap, his knuckles white from the pressure. He was trying to hold it all together, but it was difficult. His mind was still reeling from what had happened the night before, the terrible things he had witnessed—the gunshot, the faces of those he couldn't save, and most of all, Casimir.
Lisa leaned back in her chair, her eyes sharp and calculating, the corners of her mouth slightly curled in skepticism. She was calm, too calm, her gaze cold and detached. She had been like this since Kazou had first walked into the station, almost as if she were watching a performance. A performance she was trying to dissect, unravel.
"So," Lisa's voice finally cut through the stillness, "You're telling me this whole Casimir Bielska thing—this story you're pushing—wasn't just a figment of your imagination, but rather, something that really happened?"
Kazou clenched his jaw, trying to push down the anxiety that had been gnawing at him all morning. He could feel the pressure building, threatening to overwhelm him. But he needed to hold it together. He needed her to believe him. He needed someone to believe him.
"I'm not lying, detective Lisa," Kazou said quietly, his voice tinged with desperation. He wasn't sure how else to explain it. Every time he tried, the words felt weaker, like they weren't enough. "He's real. I saw him. Casimir Bielska… He's not just in my head. I watched—"
Lisa cut him off, her expression unchanging, a faint glint of amusement in her eyes.
"You watched what exactly?" she asked. There was something in her tone that made Kazou pause. "But you've convinced yourself that Casimir is real. I understand that kind of delusion. It happens when you do something. Remember that woman who was shot? Casimir did that aswell, huh?
This wasn't the conversation Kazou had hoped for. It was slipping further from the truth with every passing second. His fingers clenched into fists beneath the table. He could feel his frustration building, but he kept it under control, his eyes never leaving Lisa's.
"I'm telling you, detective, he's real. You have to believe me! I saw him, I heard him speak. I saw what he did! He killed a man. He's dangerous!"
Lisa's face remained impassive.
"The bartender you spoke with last night? I checked the receipts. There was no name of a Casimir Bielska, no European-sounding name anywhere. Not even a hint of someone like that. And the police—well, we've checked. There's no record of anyone like that coming through the city." She leaned forward, her fingers tapping against the table. "So tell me, Dr. Kazou Kuroda, are you lying to me?"
Kazou's pulse quickened. He leaned forward, too, gripping the edge of the table as if it were the only thing keeping him anchored in this reality.
"I'm not lying! He must have used another name! Possibly a Japanese name to blend in? He knew what he was doing!"
"Evidence points towards you." Lisa's voice was sharp, not unkind, but undeniably dismissive. "You're telling me this man—this Casimir Bielska—who allegedly committed murder and practically disappeared into thin air, left no trace of his existence?"
Kazou clenched his fists, his nails digging into his palms. His thoughts spiraled, a torrent of frustration building up. But he bit it back. His composure was all he had left.
"I don't know how to explain it. I don't know how he disappeared, but I saw him! He shot someone. He's dangerous."
Lisa leaned back in her chair, crossing her arms over her chest. The disbelief in her eyes was evident.
"If you're not lying, Kuroda, then explain why there's no record of him anywhere. No one saw anything. You're the only one who did. So tell me, what am I supposed to believe? And what if this is all in your head? What if you're not seeing things clearly? What if this is guilt—guilt over your own actions, over what you didn't stop? Maybe Casimir is a personification of that. A construct of your mind."
"I'm telling you the truth," Kazou whispered, voice strained, almost pleading. "Please… I just want someone to believe me."
Lisa sighed, her gaze softening just a fraction.
"You are on the suspect list. Period. I'm not changing that until further evidence. At the same time, I'm not saying I don't believe you, Kazou. But you need to make sense of this. If you really think something's going on, you've got to show me something real. Something I can work with. Otherwise…" She let her voice trail off. "Otherwise, I can't help you. Maybe you are a dangerous murderer. Maybe you're not."
Kazou's mind raced. He had nothing. Not anymore. He had nothing to prove his story, no way to convince anyone. His eyes dropped to the table, unable to meet her gaze anymore. He was suffocating.
"Detective..." Kazou muttered.
"One last question. Did you... Did you kill those people, Dr. Kuroda?" Lisa asked the question hanging heavy in the air. It was soft, but it wasn't a question anymore. It was an accusation.
No. No. He didn't—he couldn't have—he wasn't a killer.
Kazou stayed silent, shaking his head.
"I have more suspects to interrogate. Go home for now." Lisa sighed.
* * *
Kazou left the police station feeling like a man walking through a dream—a bad dream, one where nothing made sense. The air was thick with the smell of rain-soaked concrete as he made his way through the streets, his thoughts churning, lost.
The streets were empty, save for a few cars passing by, their tires splashing through puddles. Kazou didn't care about the rain, even though his coat was soaked through, his hair plastered against his forehead. It didn't matter.
His body felt heavy. Exhausted.
"What's real?" Kazou whispered to himself, his voice barely audible above the sound of the rain. "What's real anymore?"
He tried to keep his composure, tried to walk with purpose, but the weight of his grief was a constant, suffocating pressure on his chest. He was lost in a fog of confusion, guilt, and despair. How could he face what had happened? How could he face Casimir, the boy he had once tried to save, who had now turned into this… this monster?
Kazou's steps faltered. His mind was too full. His heart was too broken. His body trembled involuntarily. He turned down a narrow alley, seeking shelter from the rain for just a moment. It was there, in the isolation, that it happened.
His composure shattered.
Kazou collapsed against the cold brick wall, sliding down to his knees, his hands pressing against his face as the tears finally broke free.
He had been holding it all in for so long—everything he had witnessed, everything he had failed to stop. Casimir. The blood. The pain. The betrayal. The truth he couldn't even speak, the truth no one would believe.
Kazou's sobs came in ragged, choked bursts. He couldn't stop them. They came faster, harder. Each tear that fell felt like a release—a brief, fleeting moment of freedom from the guilt that had consumed him.
He had failed. He had failed everyone—Casimir, Four, the people he was supposed to protect.
His shoulders shook violently, and his breath came in sharp gasps.
"I couldn't save you… I couldn't save anyone…"
The rain continued to fall, cold and indifferent, as Kazou sat there in the alley, broken. Alone.
And yet, there was nothing he could do but cry.
Nothing.