The clang of metal grinding against itself echoes through the Panopticon. A rusted cell door creaks open, the sound reverberating through the cavernous prison. Stag lifts his head slightly, amber eyes flickering to the figures standing just beyond the threshold. The guards. Five of them. They do not speak. Then, his name is called. He does not hesitate, nor does he rush. With a measured pace, Stag steps forward, his movements fluid and unbothered, as if this was merely another step in a long, unchanging routine. He walks past the rows of staring eyes, feeling their gazes like claws against his pelt, but he does not react. The guards fall into step beside him, guiding him to a place he has never been before. The Interrogation Room. A single chair sits in the center, stark against the empty space. Stag does not need to be told. He takes his seat, tail curling around his paws. The air is heavy, thick with something unspoken. And then-- "Do you know why you were arrested?" A low hum rumbles in Stag's throat, a ghost of a chuckle. "I imagine you already know the answer to that, Warden." His tone is even, laced with dry amusement. He tilts his head slightly, considering. "But if you want to hear me say it... I do. I was arrested because someone decided I belonged here. Because a life was taken, and someone had to answer for it." "Do you regret what you did?" Stag exhales, slow. Contemplative. "Regret..." he repeats, tasting the word like something foreign. "No. Regret implies I would change my decision given the chance. And I wouldn’t. So, no, I do not regret it." A pause. Then, the barest tilt of his lips, an almost-smile. "Would you believe me if I said I do think about it, though?" "Did you do the right thing?" Silence stretches between them. Stag's unreadable amber gaze meets the unseen presence of the Warden, unwavering. "Right. Wrong. They’re perspectives, aren’t they?" His voice is quiet, but firm. "To some, I did what had to be done. To others, I am nothing more than a murderer. I think the more interesting question is--does it matter?" A flick of his tail, dismissive. "Call it what you will. My answer remains the same. I did what needed to be done." "Who did you hurt?" For the first time, Stag’s expression shifts, the barest furrow of his brow. "If I say ‘no one,’ you’ll call me a liar," he muses. "But if I say ‘someone,’ you’ll ask me who, and what, and why. And I don’t think I feel like answering that." He leans back slightly, still composed, still unreadable. "Let’s just say... I was efficient." "Do you believe you are GUILTY or INNOCENT?" Another low hum. Stag's tail flicks, deliberate. "You speak as if guilt and innocence are two sides of a coin," he murmurs. "But they're not. They're stories we tell ourselves." His gaze sharpens. "I did what was necessary. If that is guilt, then so be it. But I will not call it a crime." A small, quiet smirk. "Which of those bothers you more, Warden?"
