Superintendent Howard sat in a plastic chair right next to Ethan's bed, his two uniformed officers positioned strategically at the foot of the cot. Howard's face was a mask of icy contempt. The door closed with a click, isolating the small infirmary room.
"We're not going to wait for the prosecutor to have a 'conversation', mister," Howard said, leaning in slightly. "My name is Howard, and before you end up in a federal cell for the rest of your miserable life, I want you to understand the narrative."
Ethan, his mouth dry and his back burning, remained silent. His gaze was fixed on the ceiling.
"The narrative is simple," Howard continued, his voice low and polished, more threatening than a shout. "Congressman Vance is a national hero. He was attacked by a lunatic terrorist and his gang—that's your role. The bomb was your desperate attempt to cover your crimes after the police cornered you. There was no 'rescue', no 'corruption', just a hired killer who failed to finish the job."
