Fragments

[Sören]

He didn't enjoy the waiting. Time was a precious beast, and Sören was inclined to pick its carcass clean until the bones gleamed. Watching the meat rot like this instead was excruciating, slowly eating up what remained of his patience. Sarkzoy had not left him alone with the ferocity of his conscience - he did not think of the girl, or the blood, or the wisp of her soul - but with the gaping abyss of time lost. Irretrievable. For the first time he felt his control slip, and irritation bled to a deep searing anger.

By the time the detective returned, Sören's countenance had darkened. He was displeased at having been kept waiting, visibly so. The man had fostered no good will with the negligence of his absence. Nor did his protracted method of accusation do him any favours. A gaze that had been mild sharpened now, complicity brushed liked dust from shoulders. A muscle worked in his jaw, held rigid, a frown digging at his brow.

Sören's posture echoed the gravity of the conversation. He rested his arms heavily on the table, leaning forward, one hand cupped over the other. "Men like that. Like "us." They don't exist."
Not in a legal capacity. Not in any way that would force him to speak an answer while a camera digitalised every communication for the future scrutiny of strangers. Particularly strangers who worshipped at the altar of the CCD.

He did not owe Sarkozy an explanation, nor felt compelled to offer one out of kindness. If the man were looking for proof of a conscience, of a relatable reason why Sören had acted as he did, he was not apt to find one. The accusation was not lost, but tossed aside like refuse. Sören's lips remained stamped firmly shut.