Fragments

[Sören]

The man made some conciliatory attempt at politeness, but Sören was uninterested in such a veneer. The man was doing a job, one that Sören consented for him to do; he was here because he chose to be, not because he lacked other options. His fist unfurled slowly, his icy fingers aching from the pressure, the power diluting from his veins. The cop was a peripheral irritation, but compliance in the long run would do him more favours than making an issue of their egos. Still, he was glad that the ride turned out to be silent.

The ring, for now, was lost. He accepted it bitterly, but he did accept it. He stared through his own reflection in the window, the smear of city lights and snow. And thought.

Sören was equally silent as he was ushered through to an interrogation room. He laid his coat over the back of the chair before he sat, fingers laced on the table before him, and prepared to endure. He glanced up at the camera, but by the dullness of his scrutiny did not much find it worth observing. Sören had a dozen monikers he used with some frequency, but in this instance it would be foolish to avoid the truth. The officer had already tarred him with suspicion, and though perfectly innocent of the crime there was little need to be antagonistic for its own sake. "Sören Lindgren. Would you be so kind as to share your own name, or should I just call you officer?"