The drive to the police station allows me to grieve over a mediocre existence. Petrified with worry, I hide my gaze behind a veil of defeatism, which hardly meets that of Inspector Nguyen, triumphant. He acts as if he has already got a secret confession from me. I am not sure how my legs carry me from the car to the reception of the NYPD. I remain a stranger to all the bustle around me. In the hallways, I walk with my head bowed, blaming myself for being as irresponsible as my parents. I will never be able to match them with this idea that I had made for them. I have to be honest with myself: they were monsters. At this moment, we have never been so close. I follow their footsteps, literally. Mohamed told me that it was in this very same police department that their first deposition was taken, following their attempt to return to Freetown after another week that they spent disguised as homeless Masters in Staten Island. They tried to get their tattoo removed by an unlicensed tattoo artist, who owned an illegal parlor. I believe it was this gesture that the slaves never forgave them. The choice to place them in Guantanamo Bay detention camp, where they would endure a treatment worse than death, was unanimously saluted and equally appreciated on the side of the slaves and the Masters.

I am quickly led through a few corridors before sitting down near an imposing door. I still contemplate my hands, playing nervously with the chains around my wrists, the right one hooked up to the other for my arrest, when a sadly familiar voice pulls me from my thoughts.

With horror, I raise my head and meet my little sister Imane's gaze. Instinctively, I put my hands on her impassive face, where silent tears flow. She skillfully avoids me, and I notice the big black spot that encircles her eye. I struggle against the hand that forces me to sit up, furious. No word comes out of her bloody mouth too, but Imane's lips quiver to enunciate: "I'm sorry. "

"What did you do to her?" I yell.

Inspector Gomez's fist digs into my stomach, making me tremble in pain.

"Don't worry; it will be your turn soon."

Imane is drawn away from me, and I find myself alone again in front of my executioners. Anger, however, gives me new ardor, and I get up to gauge Inspector Gomez. Not even pretending to be impressed, he pushes me inside the room, which my sister has just left. It emits a putrid odor.

A woman, also in uniform, finishes wiping the red streaks that bead on the floor from the metal table before exiting. Two chairs are hanging lie around in the corner of the brightly lit room. I blink several times, also hoping to wipe away the tears that threaten to run down my face. Inspector Nguyen pulls one of the chairs near him. He searches one of his trouser pockets and pulls out a protective surgical mask, which he puts on the table. It is an old type of offense perpetrated against the slaves, a more subtle way of making us feel like plague victims.

I remain standing next to his partner. The other chair is approached behind me, and I am forced to sit down again. I collect deep in my throat words borrowing disgust, insults, all my anger which materializes in a spray of saliva, landing on Inspector Nguyen's face. In shock, I hardly admit this gesture, which bears such little resemblance to me. I refuse to imagine what Imane must have gone through in that room.

I can feel Inspector Gomez stamping with excitement behind me, and at any moment, I prepare to take the hit. Inspector Nguyen takes a handkerchief from his pocket and simply wipes his chin. He nods to his colleague, who comes out, not without a murderous look at me. I do not understand; however, I am sure that it is just a postponement. The danger is imminent, and that is the only reason why Inspector Gomez has not responded. He likes to see me drown in this worry that I try to pass off as anger.

I am ashamed that I chased away the images of my sister's swollen face so quickly, to worry about what might happen to me.

"Imane Doe gave us a very nice presentation of your family. Ordinary slaves, trying to survive. Children of the highly respected Mohamed. But your case is particular. I imagine that growing up, having the infamous Souleymane and Aïcha Doe as parents, was not easy. I understand better the smart mouth and the funny formal form of address' situation now. You think that it will be enough to compensate?"

I look at him, shaking my head. He is not allowed to pronounce their name with such contempt.

At least, I have to try to pull myself together. I blink as if to save time, carefully thinking of the words that must come out of my mouth. I freeze. Inspector Nguyen, who has just taken off his jacket, rolls up his sleeves, completely revealing his citizen's tattoo on his left arm. He gets up from the chair, turning his back to me, to face the wall covered in dark streaks.

"I've lost family members, friends, colleagues in those attacks, in a way that defies all probabilities, as if fate was mocking me. I'm telling you because I like to play fair, and this is not my personal little vendetta... I just didn't think that after all that has been done for you, all that has been forgiven the slaves for these losses, you wouldn't be able to... still continue wanting to harm the nation of the United States of America."

I quickly think of the different options available to me. Imane knows nothing; she really should know nothing. She is just a collateral victim of our selfishness, and yet... she suffers; they made her agonize. One can get a person who aches, to confess to anything, however upright that person may be.

"Where did you take my sister?"

"We're sending her back to Freetown. Anyway, without her legal guardian being present, we can't do anything."

Is this a strategy to lead me astray? There is never any question of law or legality when it comes to slaves. I weigh him up, perplexed.

"Why did you beat her?"

"Whether you believe me or not, she showed up here in this state."

"Did she come by herself?"

He does not answer, smiles briefly.

"She came to denounce a crime."

My head falls into my hands; I shake myself up. Nothing seems to make sense anymore. Nonetheless, I come to myself, thinking that it must be a trick of this well-trained hunter to fool his prey.

"Can you tell me what I am doing here?"

I cannot fault Imane at all. I kept deceiving her, lying to her regularly, with confidence. No matter what happened, she, too, has every right to dissimulate things from me. However, now, all these secrets, about to be revealed, remain the only bulwark against our doom.

"To be honest with you, I have nothing against your family. No proof, no evidence. Nothing, although you and I know what happened, slave."

"What does it have to do with my sister then?"

"Nothing, like I told you. I'm leading you up the garden path. You'll just have to ask her what she came to do here once Inspector Gomez finishes taking her statement.

Mechanically, I get up, dropping the chair behind me.

"Calm down, Object; the more you fidget, the longer will be the time she will spend with him. Not to mention that a patrol has warned me that your brother, I believe, should soon turn to the crossroads where an unpredictable band of evil Masters-Avengers awaits him. It's not Sunday yet, so the police must intervene, but I'm not sure they're willing to. You know, I understood that slaves don't like us around them."

I rush over to Inspector Nguyen and quickly find myself on the ground. I do not know what to do with such terror, such anger that asphyxiates me. All the muscles in my body tensed; I hear a sort of growl coming from the depths of my bowels. That is all that my cowardice allows me to do because I immediately miss the air. Inspector Nguyen crouches down next to my face, his head tilted to the side, watching me suffocate. A covidic crisis.

"Please, beat me, beat me to death, but leave them out of this. It is all my fault," I say, reaching painfully for his wrist. "I will tell you whatever you want! I killed her, yes, it is me! I killed her!"

He smirks a little, then disgusted, he grabs my fingers, turns them, and slams my arm to the ground. A small cry manages to cross my lips.

"That would be way too easy. I do not want your false confessions; it is your whole terrorist association, all Freetown, that I want to destroy. You think you're safe there ? That you can do everything you want behind those dirty walls ? We'll start everything over then, and the destruction of your Freetown will serve as another example for the slaves, all around the world. FreeRush stained this disgusting neighborhood with its venom long before your parents. Your role is to pay for their murders, serving me as an entry ticket."

He then gets up, pulls on his jacket. Rolling down his shirt sleeves, he leaves the room quickly. I stand desperately shaking against the repugnant ground, no longer holding back the tears he drew from me. Hunched up, I am not in my body anymore. My head hits the ground several times. I force myself to turn around, an endless maneuver to help the pain electrifying my back.

My mind wanders through one of the drawings that Imane made of our family, representing my birthday. I take refuge in this memory, snatched out of reality and time, cling to it until my nails, too deep in the flesh on my arm, propel me, like a second shock, into the interrogating room. I do not know how much time passed. I have never experienced a crisis so long, so painful, and so violent.

I frantically circle, trying to convince myself of the police officer's bluff. He wants to blackmail me and get into my head. I will not allow it. Yet... yet he has nothing to lose by orchestrating the beating of my whole family, worse all Freetown if he wants to. After some media criticism, everyone will move on, as was the Freetown case in Atlanta a few years ago. Nobody talks about it anymore, except for the specialist Activist blogs, lamenting that they cannot even know the exact number of victims to commemorate.

"I beg you, it is okay, I will do whatever you want! The Gr...

I cannot finish my sentence. With horror, I see Inspector Nguyen's grand scheme unfolding before my eyes. No way out is possible; just for his enjoyment, he will watch me struggle through this rough web. I drum against the dark window that suddenly strikes me as an executor.

Weak and cowardly in front of the man who tortures me, I do not hold my frustration on the icy material. I unwind, let this hatred pour. I turn towards the door when it suddenly swings open, revealing Imane. A discreet, menacing figure seems to push her into my arms. She struggles. Her hand hits my face, and we look at each other in silence. The dark spot around her eye extends to her jaw now. The light material that usually got on her slave tattoo was torn off, and another bruise descended on her left shoulder. Her hijab has also been taken off, and her untied hair falls over her red, dry, miserable eyes.

"I am so sorry, Imane. I assure you, I did not want to..."

Her wrist hits my cheek a second time. After a few moments of silence, she buries her face in the crook of my elbow.

"These marks are the traces of the ritual beating to join the FreeRush gang. It was either me or someone of their choice. The Grinbergs chose Mistress Salvi for Karen; for me, they wanted it to be our father."

I move away quickly.

"Did they threaten you to say that? Did the police ask you to do so? Imane, do not worry, I know I have not been honest with you, but you have to trust me, I..."

"We looked for the same, Kanoa. I cannot stand it anymore. I am tired of fighting for permission to lead this enslaved existence. I knew that the Grinbergs were eager to join the Ferrymen's business in order to escape. I wanted to get closer to them to give us this chance too. If you would have agreed to talk to me... I gave you so many opportunities to tell me what was going on, Kanoa," she says, getting irritated.

"You also knew about our escape project, why..."

"What would you have done if I had refused to follow you? Would you have left anyway?"

"I am sorry. I did not want to put you in danger," I murmur, avoiding her gaze. "I did not think you would be ready to do such an extreme thing!"

It is so cruel of me. How could she not pick up on the hypocrisy creeping into my words? There is some truth to it, though, and I am surprised that with such a wise mind, she was able to join the ranks of this violent ideology alongside the Grinbergs and Karen. She must be desperate, and I am just pushing her down. She then resumes, her words cut off by sobs.

"Karen, yesterday, while she was under the influence of those substances on which she is unfortunately dependent, confided to me what was happening with Mistress Salvi. She revealed to me, in that moment of bewilderment, what you had done, what Mohamed had done. When they first told me about the ritual beating, I categorically refused. It goes back several months already. I got worried when I noticed that the Grinbergs contacted you. Karen's confession confirmed my fears. Now I had to be able to keep an eye on them, to join FreeRush, because they would surely try to get rid of us, our family. I have been researching all this week, I have been able to connect with members who loathe the Grinbergs. Even playing on my status as the daughter of Mohamed, an honorary member of their movement, their slave code of honor could not allow a stranger to inquire about one of their comrades. So, this morning, they beat me to get me into their ranks. With the information I got about the Grinbergs' trip, I came to the police. I did not think that it would precipitate everything; I only saw our revenge."

I take the time to study her expression. She does not appear shocked or repelled. Or maybe she is, but I cannot read it. I ascertain how badly I am ultimately at deciphering the real intentions of others, too absorbed in my staging and my lies. Unsurprisingly, I am not the only slave who plays pretension, who conceals his emotions, who lies to the Masters and most of his community. Yet despite my experience of being an accomplished duper, I completely missed my sister's plight. To be more precise, I would even say that I had cowardly refused to perceive it, relying on those smiles that seemed to originate from the purest feelings of joy. I have so many questions, it is not all clear, but I register, since Imane did not lie, that Officer Nguyen was not bluffing just now. I start to hyperventilate again, thinking of my brother.

"There will be things that we will need to talk about, Imane, but for now, we have to find a way to help Ho-Jin."

"Ho-Jin? What..."

"They did not tell you anything about him, nothing at all? What questions did they ask you? What did they do to you?"

"Nothing, they did not ask me anything, they just listened to me..." she whispers, tears in her eyes, fleeing my gaze. "Please, do not insist."

"I am sorry I need to know what happened. For Ho-Jin. Did... Did they do to you... what that Master did to Karen?"

Just as I finish my question, the door opens again. Inspector Gomez, standing in the doorway, throws a torn piece of cloth at us. What remains of Imane's hijab lands on her lap, and she turns her head, suddenly very agitated, trying to hide in my arms.

"Go home. Hurry up, Thing!" he then barks at Imane.

She stands up immediately, urging me to imitate her. She clings with all her might to my elbow when we have to walk past Inspector Gomez to get through the door. I want to turn to him to plead our cause one last time, but Imane finds herself on the ground. Her fingernails dig into my skin, and I help her up quickly. The policeman walks a few meters behind us, ordering us the direction to follow to find the reception. All the way, I look around for Inspector Nguyen. Having to find myself begging my sister's abuser to save my brother, that is where I stay.

"Please, let us..."

My words do not find any receptive ear. We are just rushed out of the building.