He was just an ordinary man the day before ;someone who paid his rent on time someone who did everything to protect his younger sister since that his the family left for him , greeted the shopkeeper with a nod, and knew which streets to avoid after dark. Nothing about him suggested headlines or handcuffs. But now his face was everywhere: on screens, on whispered conversations, on the sharp edge of suspicion. He stood in the interrogation room with a calm he didn’t feel, fingers pressed lightly against the metal table as if steadying himself against a world that had tilted overnight. The overhead light buzzed faintly, too bright, too close, like it was trying to expose something inside him that wasn’t there. “I didn’t do it,” he said again, though the words were starting to sound small even to him. Outside that room, the story had already been written without him. A witness with uncertain eyes. A timeline stitched together with convenient gaps. A piece of evidence that didn’t quite fit but was close enough for people who wanted closure more than truth. He tried to remember the exact moment everything changed. One day he was invisible in the crowd; the next, he was the center of a crime he only knew from the news. It felt like waking up inside someone else’s nightmare and being forced to live by its rules.