A/N: H:LOTS isn't mine.
It's cold in the interrogation room. You sit at a table, across from two detectives in silence. They're talking to you. They're trying to intimidate you. You know this because of the looks they wear. To the untrained eye, it looks as if they are completely emotionless. But you know better. You've been in trouble too many times before not to see the look of subtle disdain in their eyes. They are disgusted with you.

Who do they think they are, you wonder? What makes them so much better than you? The truth is, they are better, whether you like it or not. They are the ones that hold the silver shields, not you. They are the elite. Baltimore's finest. Two of the first shift of Homicide. The murder police. You, on the other hand, are nothing. A street dealer. A criminal. A murderer. It is this that they want to prove.

So they begin. First one and then the other. Yelling, and then talking softly. Then, in amicable tones, they ask questions that have nothing to do with anything. And finally, they threaten you. Accomplice, they say, or maybe even full on first degree. Manslaughter? They scoff. No chance. It's murder, or you'll get off scot free. The prosecutor isn't going to let you off.

The older detective, whom you've figured out is named Pembleton, slams crime scene photos down in front of you. You look away, but he hells at you to look back. So you do. And you find yourself starting to shake.

"You know what happened, don't you?" This time, it is the younger detective, Bayliss, who is speaking. You turn to look at him, suddenly afraid. They will not do anything for fear of a police brutality suit, but you are still in fear. The time has come for a confession. You are ready to break.

So you do. And when you do, you cry and you sign the confession, relieved, but still afraid. You rise to your feet as Bayliss and Pembleton do, arms behind your back, your wrists now in handcuffs. It is over. What you thought was perfect crime is a disaster. You have been caught.

Your years mean nothing to the detectives as they lead you away. Neither do your repeated mutterings of apology, or pleas for forgiveness.

It is a hard lesson to learn, but remorse is not always enough.