The cold light of the interrogation room fell on the metal table, creating a pale reflection between the two men. Michael kept his spine straight, the handcuffs resting on the steel without making a single sound. Michell, on the other side, wasn't using the one-way mirror as a barrier; he was there, present, trying to decipher the enigma his coworker had become.
Michell sighed, crossing his arms and leaning forward.
— Michael, let's be frank. I know the behavior of criminals, and you don't fit the profile of a careless killer who would leave fingerprints on sedative ampoules. — Michell paused, lowering his tone of voice. — I don't believe you killed Arthur. It doesn't make sense for your logic.
Michael held his gaze, his expression impeccably neutral.
— I'm glad your intuition still works, Michell. As I said before, it's a biological and temporal contradiction. I couldn't be in two places at the same time, nor commit a mistake as basic as leaving genetic material at a crime scene I helped analyze myself.
— I know that — Michell interrupted, with a shadow of frustration on his face. — But the evidence... it's physical. DNA doesn't lie to a court, and the fingerprints on the ampoules Célia found are a procedural checkmate. The law isn't based on what I "feel" or what I "think" you are. It's based on what can be proven now. And, right now, I have to arrest you.
Michell stood up and began to walk through the small space, the sound of his footsteps echoing on the concrete.
— Someone spent a lot of time and resources to put you exactly in that chair. Someone who knows your steps, Michael. But rest assured — Michell stopped and looked directly into the archivist's eyes. — I will find who framed you. I'll turn that system inside out, I'll search every camera frame and every trace of whoever planted that sedative at Arthur's house. I won't let this "Architect" win by default.
Michael heard the promise. For a brief microsecond, the microexpression on his face changed. He tilted his head slightly, and the corners of his mouth rose almost imperceptibly. It was a smile of gratitude, but there was something mechanical about it, a calculated politeness that hid an abyss of intentions.
— Thank you, Michell — said Michael, his voice soft and controlled. — It's comforting to know there's still someone interested in the truth, and not just in case-closure statistics.
Michell nodded, although a part of his instinct — the one his father trained years ago — had noticed something strange about that expression. He cleared his throat, returning to his professional posture.
— We don't have much time. The system is on maximum alert and Célia is already drafting the final report for the prosecution. Get ready, Michael. The custody judge has been called in under urgent procedure.
Michell walked to the door and placed his hand on the handle, hesitating for a second before delivering the final news.
— Your trial will be tomorrow morning. Until then, you'll remain in total custody here at HQ, for security reasons. I'm going to stay up all night. If there's a trail, I'll find it.
The door closed with a metallic click, leaving Michael alone in the dimness of the room. He looked at the handcuffs and then at the ceiling, his mind already processing the architecture of this new scenario. The game hadn't ended; it had just changed rooms.