The interrogation room was dimly lit, a single flickering bulb casting a shadow on Oliver’s face. He sat in the metal chair, his wrists shackled to the table.
The room smelled of disinfectant and stale coffee, a smell all too familiar to him, it smelt like prison. His throat felt dry, and though he tried to speak, no words came. His silence wasn’t anger, it was exhaustion.
The detective across from him leaned forward, slamming a folder onto the table.
“Oliver, let’s cut the games. We know you weren’t supposed to be out of prison. How did you escape? Who helped you?”
Oliver raised his head, his eyes locking with the detective’s. His lips parted, but the words caught in his throat. He couldn’t bring himself to answer. Life back in prison wasn’t something he thought will ever happen again
