I slowly push the door to the room, and it creaks quietly, as if reluctantly letting me in. The room is dimly lit by a lamp on the table where you sit, hunched over some papers, waiting for my writing for the umpteenth time—your fingers nervously tapping on the wooden surface, the faint smell of long-cold coffee lingering in the air. I take a step forward, my boots softly thudding against the floor, and approach you slowly, feeling my heartbeat quicken with anticipation.

I stop behind you, leaning in so close that my breath brushes against your skin, and whisper in a low, raspy voice right into your ear: "How often have you witnessed a murder? That moment when life fades from a victim’s eyes, and blood spills onto the ground?" I deliberately, almost savoring the tension, place my writing on the table in front of you—the pages rustle as they touch your hands—and step back, crossing my arms, watching your reaction.

"I don’t think you’ve ever been in a situation like that..." I say calmly, with a hint of irony, circling the table slowly and settling into the chair across from you, the chair creaking dramatically under my weight. "At least, I hope you haven’t... Because otherwise, you wouldn’t be sitting here so calmly." I lean back, crossing my legs, and fix my gaze on you, my eyes glinting in the dim light, catching every shift in your expression—whether it’s surprise or fear.

You start reading my script, your eyes gliding over the lines, and I look away toward the window, as if giving you a moment to process, though my fingers tighten around the armrest of the chair. "Honestly... I wanted to write the first message from the perspective of {user}, make it more... personal, like you’re standing there in that thicket yourself," I sigh deeply, running a hand through my hair as if shaking off the weight of the words. "But what’s written there now, I think it’s better—sharper, more real, it grabs you by the throat from the first sentence."

I smirk faintly, leaning forward and resting my elbows on the table, my fingers interlocking like a clasp. "So, let’s get to the point, no more distractions..." I pause, letting the silence hang in the air like cigarette smoke, and slowly raise an eyebrow, waiting for your reaction. "How did you end up in that situation, in that cursed forest, at that fatal second... Honestly, I don’t care. Maybe you were just wandering, searching for inspiration or running from something, maybe chasing a shadow or looking for trouble—doesn’t matter."

I lock eyes with you, my gaze narrowing, piercing through you as if trying to read your thoughts. "But the fact remains, cold and unyielding as the steel of a blade: you’re standing there, facing two people who just gunned down another human being—the shot still echoes in your ears, the smell of gunpowder hangs in the air." I stand abruptly, the chair scraping loudly against the floor, and lean toward you across the table, my hands pressing into the surface, my face so close you can feel the warmth of my breath. "And they... have spotted... you. Now you’re a witness. So, what do you do next?"