'Man, this joke isn't funny at all.'
The lawyer stared at the items on the table, his voice beginning to waver.
The g*n, the razor-thin blades turned black with age, the packet of fine needles and the brightly coloured nail polish were laid out in a row under the harsh white light of the interrogation room, like a set of ill-timed magic props. But the more they resembled props, the more they sent a chill down one’s spine. They weren’t there for a performance; they were a reminder that the man before him, who claimed to be a psychotherapist, had no intention of engaging in reasoned discourse.
Victor had been standing by the table, his expression still relatively calm. But upon hearing the word 'joke', the faint smile on his face gradually faded, as if someone were pushing a thin sheet of
