The hallway smelled like disinfectant and old paper.

Not the sharp, sterile kind from hospitals—the dull, lingering kind that clung to government buildings where nothing ever truly dried and nothing ever truly changed. The lights hummed overhead, a steady, indifferent buzz that made every footstep sound louder than it should.

Markus sat on a molded plastic chair outside Interview Room 3, elbows on his knees, hands clasped. His badge was gone—not confiscated, just collected—placed in a small evidence tray along with his phone, his pen, and the notebook he’d carried for years. The tray sat on a counter across the hall, tagged and logged like any other item.

He felt the absence of the badge more than he expected.

A door opened down the corridor. A uniform stepped out, glanced at a clipboard, and called a name that wasn’t his. Someone else stood, someone else walked past him, someone else disappeared into a room where the air would be colder and the questions sharper.

Markus exhaled slowly.

This was the part no one prepared you for—the moment when the institution you’d served turned its gaze on you. Not hostile. Not vindictive. Just... procedural. A machine doing what machines do.

The door to Interview Room 3 opened.

“Detective Adler,” the woman said, though her tone made it clear the title was provisional. “We’re ready for you.”