Psychobi: Part 4

The cold steel of the handcuffs bit into my wrists as they hauled me outside. The flashing red and blue lights bathed the warehouse in a harsh, unforgiving glow. The air was heavy with the scent of rust and fear—his fear. I could still hear his desperate gasps behind me as the paramedics rushed to his aid.

I kept my head down, my expression blank. The officers were barking orders, their voices blending into a chaotic symphony of authority and panic. But none of it mattered. My mind was elsewhere, already planning my next move.

"Get him in the car," one officer said, shoving me toward the back of a police cruiser.

I complied without resistance, stepping into the vehicle with calm precision. The door slammed shut, sealing me in a bubble of silence. I could feel their eyes on me, trying to decipher the monster they believed they'd captured.

But they didn't understand. They saw a criminal, a disturbed young man who had taken things too far. They couldn't comprehend the depth of my purpose. This wasn't about murder; it was about transformation. They'd interrupted my ritual, but they hadn't ended it.

The drive to the station was uneventful. The officer driving glanced at me in the rearview mirror several times, his eyes flickering with curiosity and unease.

"You don't seem scared," he finally said, breaking the silence.

I met his gaze in the mirror, my face devoid of emotion. "What's there to be scared of?"

He frowned but said nothing more. The rest of the ride passed in tense quiet, the hum of the engine the only sound.

At the station, they processed me quickly—fingerprints, mugshot, the whole routine. I let them. Compliance was my strategy now. I needed time to think, to regroup. There was no point in fighting the system when I could manipulate it instead.

They led me to an interrogation room, its stark white walls and harsh fluorescent lighting designed to break people down. I sat in the metal chair, hands still cuffed in front of me, and waited.

Minutes stretched into what felt like hours before the door finally opened. A detective walked in, his presence commanding. He was tall, broad-shouldered, with sharp eyes that missed nothing. He carried a file in one hand, thick with papers.

"Psychobi, right?" he said, taking a seat across from me. His tone was neutral, but there was a flicker of something else—curiosity, perhaps.

I nodded, my lips curling slightly. "People call me Psycho."

He raised an eyebrow, setting the file down on the table. "You know, most people in your situation would be begging for a lawyer right now."

I shrugged. "Most people aren't like me."

He leaned forward, folding his hands on the table. "No, you're not. You've got their attention, and not just mine. What were you planning to do in that warehouse?"

I tilted my head, studying him. Should I play along? Reveal part of the truth? Or keep them guessing? I decided on a middle ground.

"Evolution," I said, my voice calm. "I wasn't just planning to kill him. It was a transformation. A step forward."

The detective narrowed his eyes. "Transformation into what?"

"Something better. Something more."

He leaned back in his chair, exhaling slowly. "You sound like one of those cult leaders or some twisted philosopher."

"Call it what you want," I replied, my gaze unwavering. "You stopped me today, but you can't stop the inevitable."

His jaw tightened, and for a moment, neither of us spoke. Then, he stood, gathering the file. "You're not as clever as you think," he said. "We'll be watching you, Psycho."

I smiled as he left the room. They could watch all they wanted. I had already planted the seed.

This was far from over.

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