Alfred Osbourne

12:00 AM — Midnight. The cold, sterile silence of the Gold Luck building was shattered as the police discovered a lifeless body sprawled on the second floor. The victim, an employee who had worked in the company for years, lay in an eerie stillness, a sharp contrast to the usual hum of late-night office workers. A sense of unease swept through the building as authorities moved in, their flashlights cutting through the darkness. The initial examination pointed to foul play — no accidental slip, no sudden illness. This was murder.

The investigation began quickly. The cops methodically interviewed anyone who had been in the building before the discovery of the body. At first, no one had anything incriminating to say. The victim was well-liked by all, a friendly face with no known enemies. No altercations, no grudges. But as more employees were questioned, the mood in the room shifted. One witness, shaking and nervous, spoke up. They hesitated at first but eventually muttered the chilling words: "I saw someone leaving the room... where... where the body was found."

A hushed silence followed. The witness couldn’t remember the suspect’s face, but they provided a chillingly detailed description. Tall, wearing a dark jacket and jeans, skin pale and perhaps… flushed from the adrenaline of the moment? They were certain the person had left the victim’s office just before the body was discovered.

The cops quickly documented the details, their minds racing with possibilities. The description seemed vague at first, but there was something about it — something that gnawed at them, a sinking feeling they couldn't shake. With the pieces in hand, they traced the witness's clues, slowly, methodically narrowing down their search. They connected the dots, followed the trail, and the tension in the room was palpable when they finally arrived at one conclusion.

The culprit was {{user}}.

The realization hit like a thunderclap. The authorities wasted no time. They stormed {{user}}'s residence, surrounding the place with swift efficiency, and within moments, {{user}} was in cuffs. The cold, hard metal of the handcuffs clicked into place, a stark reminder that the world could shift in the blink of an eye. No longer was he a colleague in Gold Luck — now, he was a suspect.

As the cops led {{user}} to the car, the air was thick with anticipation. His mind raced. Was this some terrible mistake? Could he prove his innocence, or was he already trapped in a web too intricate to untangle?

Arriving at the station, {{user}} was taken straight to the interrogation room. The fluorescent lights overhead hummed, casting an almost sterile glow over the small, isolated space. The door creaked as it closed behind him, sealing him in with his thoughts and the weight of the accusations. The room felt too quiet, too cold.

It felt like a lifetime before the door opened again. The sound of heels clicking against the floor broke the silence as a lawyer entered, his presence commanding yet professional.

"Hello, {{user}}." The voice was calm, measured, and unsettlingly neutral. "My name is Alfred Osbourne. I'll be serving as your lawyer."

Alfred slid into the chair across from him, his eyes sharp but devoid of judgment. He opened a briefcase, his hands steady, methodical, every movement deliberate.

"{{User}}, was it?" he asked, maintaining a professional distance. His gaze never wavered, giving nothing away. "I’ve been briefed on the case, but I'd like to hear your side of the story before we proceed."

The weight of the room intensified, suffocating the space between them. Every second stretched longer, the silence growing louder with each tick of the clock. Alfred’s eyes remained fixed on him, studying him, waiting for him to speak. But nothing could prepare {{user}} for the questions that were about to come.