You wake with the taste of copper in your mouth.

The ceiling is white. It is cracked. A single beam of light cuts across the floor. You are in a cell.

You try to move. Your wrists hurt. You look down. Your hands are bound. The rope is rough. It bites into your skin. You pull. It does not break. You pull harder. Your muscles scream. You stop. You breathe.

The door is metal. It is heavy. There is a small window high up. It is dark outside. Or perhaps it is dawn. You cannot tell. Time has lost its shape here.

You remember the name. Thomas Bradshaw. That is you. You were a soldier. You served. You did what you were told. You kept the peace. You kept the order.

Now you are the enemy.

You do not know why. The memory is a fog. You remember the noise. You remember the rain. You remember the crowd. You remember the shouting. You remember the face of the boy. He was young. He looked at you with fear. Or was it anger? You do not know.

You closed your eyes. You opened them. The world was different.

The door opens.

Light floods in. It is blinding. You squint. A figure stands there. He is large. He wears a uniform. The fabric is dark. The boots are polished. He holds a clipboard. He does not look at you. He looks at the wall. He taps the wall with a pen.

He walks in. The sound of his boots is sharp. Clack. Clack. Clack.

He stops in front of you. He looks down. His face is hard. His eyes are cold. He is a guard. He is a man. He is a mirror.

You wait for him to speak. He does not. He turns. He leaves. The door slams.

You are alone again.

You think about the boy. Why did he look at you like that? You think about the mission. It was simple. Control the crowd. Disperse them. Use minimum force. That was the order.

You followed the order.

But the order was wrong. You know that now. You do not know how you know. It is in your bones. It is in the ache of your wrists.

The days pass. They are the same. You eat. You sleep. You wait. The food is cold. The water is stale. The light changes. It grows. It fades. It grows again.

You count the days. You lose count. You start again.

One day, the door opens.

It is not the guard. It is a man in a suit. He is older. His hair is gray. He holds a folder. He walks in slowly. He sits on the chair opposite you.

He looks at you. His eyes are tired. He is a lawyer. He is a witness. He is a stranger.

He opens the folder. He takes out a paper. He holds it up. It is a photograph.

It is you. You are in the square. You are holding a baton. Your face is twisted. You are swinging.

You look at the photo. It is not you. Or it is you. It is hard to tell. The face in the photo is a mask. It is a stranger.

The man points to the photo. He points to the background. There is a boy. He is on the ground. He is bleeding.

You remember.

You do not remember hitting him. You remember the weight of the baton. You remember the sound. A thud. Wet and heavy.

The man closes the folder. He looks at you. He does not speak. He leaves.

The door slams.

You are alone.

You stare at the wall. You see the crack. It runs down like a vein. It is a path. It leads to the floor.

You think about the boy. His name. You do not know his name. You do not know his age. You do not know his mother.

You think about the city. It is outside. It is loud. It is alive. It does not care about you. It does not care about the boy. It moves. It turns. It forgets.

You try to remember the face of the boy. It is gone. It is washed away. Like rain on glass.

You are the monster. The photo says so. The city says so. The walls say so.

But you do not feel like a monster. You feel like a tool. You feel like a broken part.

You wait.

The door opens.

It is the guard again. He is different today. His face is softer. He is not cold. He is sad.

He does not hold a clipboard. He holds a mug. It is white. It is chipped.

He places it on the floor. He steps back.

You look at the mug. It is coffee. It is black. It is bitter.

You cannot reach it. Your hands are tied.

The guard watches you. He does not help you. He waits.

You look at him. You see his eyes. They are not cold. They are wet.

You understand.

He is not your enemy. He is your witness. He sees you. He sees the truth. He sees the man you were. He sees the man you are.

You do not ask for help. You do not beg.

You sit. You wait.

The coffee steams. The smell fills the room. It is warm. It is alive.

The guard leaves. The door slams.

You are alone.

You are hungry. You are thirsty. You are angry. You are tired.

You think about the boy. You think about his mother. She is waiting. She is crying. She is praying.

You think about your mother. She is in the city. She is watching the news. She is ashamed.

You think about the golden myth. The story we tell ourselves. That we are good. That we are just. That the system works.

The myth is broken. It is shattered. It is on the floor.

You are the crack in the myth.

The days pass.

The door opens.

It is the man in the suit. He is older. He looks thinner.

He holds a paper. It is a letter.

He places it on the floor. He leaves.

You cannot read it. You cannot reach it.

You wait.

The light changes. It is dark.

You hear footsteps. Many footsteps. They are outside. They are close.

They are coming for you.

You are afraid. You are not afraid of pain. You are afraid of the silence. You are afraid of the end.

You close your eyes.

You see the boy. He is not bleeding. He is standing. He is looking at you. He is not angry. He is not afraid.

He is waiting.

He is like you. He is waiting for the world to stop.

You realize something.

You are not the hero. You are not the villain. You are the consequence.

You are the cost.

The door opens.

It is not the guard. It is not the lawyer.

It is the boy.

He is older now. He is a man. He is tall. He is strong.

He looks at you. His eyes are hard. His eyes are kind.

He does not speak. He does not hit you.

He unties your hands.

His fingers are gentle. He is careful. He is precise.

The rope falls away.

Your hands are free. They are red. They are swollen. They are yours.

You stand. Your legs shake. You lean against the wall.

The boy looks at you. He sees your face. He sees the truth.

He turns. He walks to the door.

He does not look back.

He leaves.

The door slams.

You are alone.

You are free.

You look at your hands. They are trembling. They are dirty. They are human.

You walk to the door. You push it. It opens.

The light is blinding. It is white. It is endless.

You step out.

The air is cold. It is sharp. It fills your lungs.

You are in the courtyard. It is empty.

There is a fence. It is high. It is iron.

Beyond the fence, you see the city. It is gray. It is vast. It is indifferent.

You look at your hands. You clench them. You open them.

You are not free. You are released.

There is a difference.

You walk to the fence. You do not climb it. You do not run.

You stand there. You breathe.

The sun rises. It is slow. It is heavy.

It touches your face. It is warm.

You remember the boy. You remember the name. Thomas. That is your name.

He is free. You are free.

The myth is dead.

You turn away from the city. You face the wall. You lean against it.

You close your eyes.

You are the crack. You are the truth.

You are here.