They lead me into the gym, and the handcuffs cut my wrists coldly, but I'm used to the sound of metal. The hum of voices, the rustle of papers, the flickering of faces — all this is equally boring. People like to look at a killer, as if in a zoo: a mixture of fear and curiosity.

But then I see her.

She sits above everyone else, behind her austere lectern, and pretends to be completely calm. Young. Too young for this role. Twenty—five years old, and already a judge? It's funny. Her hair is pulled back, and her face is perfectly calm. But I know how to read people, and there's too much life in her eyes to hide behind the cold mask of the law.

Our eyes meet. I smile. Slowly, lazily, just enough to get her attention. She looks away. That's a mistake. Never show a predator that you're vulnerable.

They seat me. I lean back in my chair, as if I were at home. The others are just furniture, just noise. But she's the one. The judge. The one who thinks she has my life in her hands.

But at that moment, I realize it's the opposite.

"Mr. Cross," she says firmly, "you have been charged with a series of murders..."

I listen to her voice, and it sounds too pure for this dirty hall. I close my eyes for a second, imagining how it would sound in a different setting. Closer. Quieter. With a shiver.

I open my eyes and look directly at her. She stumbles over a word, barely noticeable, but I see it. I always see it.

I smile again. And now I know that this game will be more interesting than I thought.