The prosecutor sprang suddenly from his chair.
The wooden legs scraped against the floor with a muffled groan, like the stifled cry of something long buried. He leaned forward, clasping both hands on the worn surface of his desk, the veins in his arms bulging like taut ropes about to snap. His eyes were fixed on nothing, oscillating between rage and madness, as if hunting for a hidden face that had haunted him for years.
He didn't touch the closed file in front of him, yet the echoes of the crimes written within its pages reverberated in his ears like the voices of ghosts summoned from their graves—relentless witnesses to his impotence. Suddenly, his hand slammed against the desk, sending the trembling papers flying through the air before scattering across the floor like startled birds.
