55-Zach
The interrogation room reeks with the tangy odor of sweat and guilt.
Detective Muller sits across from me, flipping through my file with a lazy, detached efficiency. He doesn’t look at the photos long, but I know what they show. I lived them.
“So,” he says, tapping a pen against the table, “Mr. Hildenbrook assaulted you in the past.”
“Yes. Multiple times. That’s why—”
“But he didn’t assault you tonight?”
“No, not exactly, but who knows—”
“So, no other assault took place tonight other than the one between Mr. Rotherson and Mr. Hildenbrook, correct?” he cuts in, voice clipped.
I swallow my simmering anger. I know this game. I’ve sat in rooms like this before—talked over, minimized and redirected, made to feel like a burden instead of the victim.
“He’s dangerous,” I say, resting my elbows on the cold steel table as I lean forward. “Look at that file. Look at what he did to my face. Look at what he did to me! He was supposed to stay away from me, and he didn’t. That alone should tell you everything you need to know.”
“What I know,” he says slowly, closing the folder, “is that Mr. Hildenbrook is in pretty bad shape right now. And if he didn’t do anything to you tonight, I have nothing to keep him.”
“Look at this.” I hold up my wrist, the fresh bruises already blooming into dark fingerprints. “Who knows what he would’ve done if Kit hadn’t shown up.”
He meets my eyes. For a moment, something flickers there; sympathy, or maybe guilt. A faint recognition that this is bigger than paperwork.
“My hands are tied,” he says quietly, his brown coils bouncing as he dips his head to the tabletop, no doubt watching his pathetic reflection.
It scrubs me bloody.
“Nice.” I scoff, sinking into my chair. “So, if you set him free and he kills me later tonight, is that on your conscience?”
His gunmetal gaze snaps up, lips parting like he’s about to say something, but a knock at the door interrupts him. Another officer pokes his head in.
“Detective,” he says, nodding toward the hallway.
Detective Muller stands, shoving his hands into his jeans pockets. “Excuse me.”
He steps out and shuts the door behind him, leaving me with the hum of the lights and the pounding of my own heartbeat.
I press my palms to my lids, trying to steady myself. Worst case scenario, Kit’s in a holding cell right now. With Carter.
Minutes pass, or maybe hours. Time is strange in these rooms; my racing pulse the only sign that it’s moving at all.
The door finally opens again. But it’s not the detective, it’s Greg, and I’ve never been so relieved to see anyone in my life.
“Come on,” he says gently, gray-striped hair tousled with bedhead. “We’re leaving.”
I stand so fast the chair scrapes against the floor. “Where is he?”
“He’s waiting in the lobby.”
Detective Muller reappears behind Greg. “Seems like Mr. Hildenbrook decided to drop the charges. We’re keeping him overnight for violating the restraining order. He’ll be arraigned in the morning.”
Of course.
I know the game of justice is rigged, especially for celebrities. Carter got paid off to drop the charges. Someone made a call, deciding that Kit’s anonymity and Somnium’s reputation was worth making a deal with a devil.
I follow Greg out, my legs shaky. Fresh coffee and floor polish fill the hall. Phones ring, and officers murmur to each other as they pass. Kit’s in the lobby with Cooper and Seth.
His stare locks on me the second I step through the doorway, crossing the room in three long strides. With his hoodie sleeves pushed up, the gauze bandage wrapped around Kit’s right hand is prominent.
“Are you all right?” he asks, cupping my face with his uninjured hand, his thumb brushing my cheek like he needs to check that I’m real.
I wish this was a simple nightmare. But we’re not waking up from this.
“You idiot,” I whisper, tears prickling my lids. I grab his injured wrist, holding him in place as he tries to lurch back. “You fucking idiot!”
“You will watch him break. And you shall break with him.”
Endymion’s warning blares like a hindsight siren. My sight confines to the gauze and splint. Kit is a multi-instrumentalist. His hands are his livelihood. And the one he uses for nearly everything is probably broken.
I’ve jeopardized the one thing he can’t lose.
Guilt burns like acid. It flares hot, eating through whatever’s left of my composure. Every inhale stings. This isn’t just about me; this is about the tour. The band. Kit’s career. All of it’s hanging by a precarious thread because he jumped in to protect me.
I step away from him, unable to bear the weight of Greg’s drilling gaze.
“Let’s get you out of here,” Cooper murmurs, handing me my cracked phone.
I let him wrap an arm around me, then glance back at Kit. His shoulders sag, jaw clenching, but he dips his chin, accepting my choice. No one speaks as we walk out of the station.
The parking lot is quiet except for the distant drone of traffic. My job, the documentary, and tour—everything’s become fragile, like a glass sphere balanced on a slippery fingertip. One wrong move from me, and everything breaks. I’m Kit’s collateral damage.
Nothing more.