Death of the Gods

Rodrigo stared at the stern face of the investigator in front of him. The man's expression was cold and analytical, as if he had seen countless similar cases and knew exactly what to look for. The harsh angles of the fluorescent lights above cast sharp shadows on his weathered face, highlighting the wrinkles on his forehead and the tired eyes that seemed to have seen far more than they would have liked.

The room they were in was oppressively sterile. The walls were a light gray, devoid of decoration, just smooth, cold surfaces that echoed even the faintest sound. In the corner of the ceiling, a camera silently rotated, capturing every movement and expression of Rodrigo. He knew there were no blind spots. Somewhere behind him, probably hidden by a one-way mirror, other eyes were watching him as well, analyzing his body language, looking for any sign of nervousness or lies.

Rodrigo took a deep breath, trying to stay calm. The metal chair he was sitting on was uncomfortable, the rigid backrest forcing him to sit upright. The table in front of him was equally simple — metallic, cold to the touch, and empty, except for a notepad and a pen left by the investigator.

The man in front of him, dressed in a dark suit, adjusted his tie and pulled a sheet of paper, sliding it to the center of the table. Rodrigo couldn't help but notice the wedding ring on the investigator's finger, a mundane detail that felt so out of place in the impersonal environment of the room.

The investigator leaned slightly forward, clasping his hands on the table. His voice was low and controlled:

— Can you repeat your name and nationality?

Rodrigo briefly looked down at the table before answering, feeling the weight of the situation intensify. He knew that every word he spoke would be scrutinized.

— Rodrigo... I'm Brazilian.

The investigator didn't react immediately. Instead, he picked up the pen and made some quick notes on the pad. The sound of the pen scratching the paper filled the room, loud as if it were deafening.

Rodrigo pressed his fingers against the sides of the chair, trying to hide his nervousness. His eyes flickered to the camera in the corner, reminding himself that he was not alone, even though it felt like it.

— Brazilian... — the investigator repeated, as if testing the weight of the word. He stared directly into Rodrigo's eyes, as if trying to see through him. — Can you explain, then, how you ended up in a remote field in South Korea in the middle of the night, wearing a Japanese school uniform?

Rodrigo opened his mouth to respond but hesitated. He knew the truth would be impossible to explain. For a moment, he thought of the woman with crimson eyes and golden hair, the mysterious voice that dragged him into this world, and then he met the investigator's gaze once more.

— I... — Rodrigo began, but the words seemed stuck in his throat.

The investigator raised an eyebrow, waiting, and Rodrigo felt the crushing weight of that gaze, as if each second of silence was condemning him more.

Rodrigo closed his eyes for a moment and sighed heavily, feeling the weight of the situation settle on his shoulders. His hands slowly moved to his head, fingers pressing his temples as if that could ease the pulsing confusion in his mind.

He took a deep breath before finally speaking:

— I... I went home last night, after work. — His voice sounded tense, almost trembling, but he tried to maintain composure. — It was raining heavily... I was tired. I took a shower, had a quick meal, and went to sleep... That's all.

Rodrigo opened his eyes and stared at the investigator, hoping his expression would convey the truth — or at least what he believed to be the truth.

— And then, when I woke up... — He shook his head slowly, the confusion returning to take over. — I was in a hospital. In a white room, with a doctor who told me I was in South Korea.

The investigator didn't react immediately. He kept staring at Rodrigo, as if weighing every word that had been said. After a few seconds of silence, he leaned back in his chair, crossed his arms, and let out a brief sound, almost like a contained sigh.

— South Korea... — he repeated, almost as if testing the idea in his own mind. Then, without breaking eye contact, he asked: — How old are you?

Rodrigo blinked, surprised by the seemingly random question, but then he realized that nothing in that room was random. The investigator was looking for inconsistencies — small details that could betray him.

— Twenty-two — Rodrigo replied, trying to keep his voice steady, but feeling the tension rising again.

The investigator wrote something down in his notepad and then looked back at him.

— Twenty-two — he repeated, as if confirming. — And are you sure about that?

Rodrigo furrowed his brow, confused.

— What do you mean by "sure"? Of course I am.

— Then why— the investigator raised an eyebrow — do the medical records indicate a seventeen-year-old boy?

Rodrigo froze. The air in the room seemed to get heavier. He blinked several times, trying to process what he had just heard.

— Seventeen...? — He repeated the word as if it didn't make sense. — That... can't be right.

— It's what's in the documents — the investigator stated, tapping the pen against the pad. — Your body, your appearance... everything points to someone who is finishing high school.

Rodrigo brought his hand to his mouth, feeling the cold sweat starting to form at the back of his neck. He looked at his reflection in the window once again — the young face, the smooth features, the eyes that weren't his.

— This... this doesn't make sense. — His voice came out almost as a whisper.

The investigator continued to watch him, waiting for an explanation. Rodrigo, on the other hand, felt his mind spinning, desperately searching for answers that simply didn't exist.

Rodrigo took a deep breath, trying to keep control of the whirlwind of emotions threatening to overtake him. His heart hammered in his chest, and his hands began to tremble slightly. He knew that panicking now would only make things worse. First, he needed to solve this situation — or at least buy time until he understood what was really going on.

He ran his hands over his face, feeling the skin smoother than he remembered, and squeezed his eyes shut for a moment before looking at the investigator again.

— Look... — Rodrigo began, his voice a bit hoarse, but firm enough. — I am — or was — a manual laborer. In Brazil.

The investigator kept his eyes fixed on Rodrigo, jotting something down in his notebook, but he didn't say a word. Rodrigo continued:

— I worked for a construction company. It was started by foreigners a few years ago and began to gain recognition in the city I lived in. They paid a decent salary—nothing extraordinary, but enough to survive.

Rodrigo paused, looking at the ceiling for a moment before diverting his gaze back to the table between them. He could feel the weight of the environment, the silent claustrophobia of the closed room, amplified by the cold gleam of the strategically placed cameras.

— I lived in one of the capitals, — he continued, letting out a tired sigh. — But not in a good area. My neighborhood was poor, full of people just trying to survive with whatever they had. Houses crammed together, narrow, dark streets, almost always filled with trash. I've seen neighbors get robbed right in front of me, and no one did anything.

The investigator briefly lifted his gaze, considering Rodrigo's words, but then went back to writing in his notebook.

— Go on, — he requested in a neutral tone.

Rodrigo nodded, straightening up slightly in his chair.

— I shared a small apartment. Actually, it was more of a studio, on the second floor of a building that seemed on the verge of collapsing. It had cracks in the walls, leaks, and the plumbing always leaked. The rent was cheap, but sometimes I could barely afford it.

Rodrigo felt the lump in his throat tighten, but he pushed the feeling away. He didn't want to show weakness here.

— My day started early, like five-thirty in the morning. I'd leave before the sun came up and only come back late at night, covered in cement and dust. The work was hard. Carrying bags, mixing concrete, climbing scaffolding… At the end of the day, all I wanted was to take a shower and sleep, but many times, I couldn't even rest properly.

Rodrigo looked directly at the investigator, trying to convey sincerity.

— It wasn't an easy life. I won't lie. But it was all I had.

The investigator leaned slightly forward, resting his elbows on the table.

— And you're saying you woke up here, in this country, in this body, with no memory of how it happened?

Rodrigo nodded, feeling the sweat trickle down his neck.

— Yes. I have no idea how I ended up here. One day, I was in Brazil, sleeping in my bed. The next, I woke up in a hospital... in this body.

The investigator observed Rodrigo for a few seconds, his sharp eyes analyzing every detail of his expression.

— That's hard to believe.

— I know, — Rodrigo replied, almost in desperation. — I wouldn't believe it either.

The silence hung in the room for a moment, broken only by the sound of the pen scratching the paper. Rodrigo used the moment to take a deep breath. He needed to stay calm. He needed to convince this man that he wasn't lying.

But deep down, Rodrigo knew that the truth seemed so absurd that even he couldn't believe it.

The investigator adjusted his posture in the chair, leaning forward slightly. He stared directly into Rodrigo's eyes with an analytical, almost clinical gaze, as he twirled the pen between his fingers.

— Alright… — he began, pausing for a moment before continuing. — What about your heritage? You mentioned that your appearance is different from what you remember. Do you have any family background that explains Japanese or Korean traits?

Rodrigo furrowed his brow for a moment, feeling uncomfortable with the question. It wasn't that he didn't know his own origins, but now, trapped in a body he didn't recognize, it felt like even his most basic certainties were being called into question.

— I… I guess you could say yes. — Rodrigo answered, taking a deep breath before continuing. — My father was Korean. Well, at least that's what he said, since he was born in Brazil, but his parents came directly from Korea.

The investigator gave a small nod, jotting down the information.

— And your mother?

— Japanese. — Rodrigo replied promptly. — She was part of the large wave of immigrants who came to Brazil after World War II. That was in the 1910s or 1920s. I'm not sure about the details because I never really got interested in the historical side of the family.

Rodrigo paused, crossing his arms and glancing down at the floor for a brief moment before returning his gaze to the investigator.

— I never thought much about it, you know? I grew up being told I was Brazilian and that was it. At most, people joked that I had a "Japanese face" because of my slightly slanted eyes, but my skin was darker, so no one really thought I was Asian.

The investigator nodded slowly, absorbing Rodrigo's words and making more notes in his notebook.

— Interesting. But that still doesn't explain how you ended up here, in South Korea, in a completely different body. — He paused, raising his gaze again. — Or why you speak Korean so fluently.

Rodrigo opened his mouth to answer, but then closed it again. He had no answer for that. How could he? Even he was still trying to understand the absurd situation he had found himself in.

— I don't know. — He finally said, in a low, almost defeated tone. — I have no idea.

The investigator kept his gaze fixed on Rodrigo for a few more seconds before leaning back in his chair, letting out a light sigh.

— Alright. For now, let's stick to the basic information. But know this: if there's something you're not telling me, sooner or later, it will come out.

Rodrigo simply nodded, feeling the weight accumulate on his shoulders. He knew this was far from over.

The investigator continued writing in his notebook with quick, precise movements. The sound of the pen scraping the paper filled the silence of the room, mingled only with the faint hum of the fluorescent lights on the ceiling. Rodrigo watched every move the man made, feeling a growing weight in his chest.

Suddenly, the investigator stopped writing. He placed the pen on the notebook and carefully closed it before looking up and staring at Rodrigo once more. His eyes were calculating, but there was something in them that Rodrigo couldn't quite decipher—maybe curiosity, maybe suspicion.

The man then leaned to the side and pulled a small folder from the table. With controlled movements, he opened the folder and took out a transparent plastic bag. Inside, there was a metallic object, reflecting the cold light. Rodrigo squinted, trying to see it better. It was a folding knife, with a partially visible blade and a handle that seemed worn from use.

— This… — the investigator began, holding the plastic bag up to Rodrigo's eyes. — Was found near where you were.

Rodrigo felt a chill run down his spine. He kept his eyes fixed on the object for a few seconds before diverting his gaze back to the investigator's face.

— It was found with me? — Rodrigo asked, his voice coming out louder than he intended.

The investigator nodded slowly.

— Yes. Not in your pocket, nor in your clothes, but very close to where you were unconscious. — He gently shook the plastic bag, making the knife slide inside. — What's curious… because Dr. Elias, the doctor, reported that the only personal item you had with you was a pair of glasses.

Rodrigo blinked a few times, confused.

— Dr. Elias… — Rodrigo began, trying to organize his thoughts. — He really said that. He said the only item I had was the glasses. I have them here, actually. — Rodrigo reached up to his face, touching the thin glasses Elias had given him earlier.

The investigator remained silent for a moment, watching Rodrigo closely.

— And you don't recognize this knife? You've never seen it before?

Rodrigo shook his head immediately.

— No. I've never seen this in my life. — He leaned forward, looking more closely at the object. — I didn't even have the habit of carrying things like this. In Brazil, I just carried my wallet and phone. Nothing else.

The investigator kept his gaze fixed on him, as if trying to find a crack in the answer. Then he leaned back in his chair again, placing the plastic bag on the table between them.

— It's a Japanese-made knife. — The investigator said. — And it seems to have some scratches on the blade, as if it had been used recently.

Rodrigo felt a tightness in his stomach.

— Used? Used for what?

The investigator shrugged.

— We'll figure that out later. — He grabbed his notebook again and started writing. — But for now, I need you to keep answering the questions.

Rodrigo glanced at the knife once more, trying to ignore the lump in his throat.

What did this mean? Why was it here, so close to him? More than ever, he felt like he was caught up in something far bigger than he could understand.

The investigator kept writing in his notebook, his eyes focused on every word Rodrigo said. After a few seconds of silence, he looked up again and took a deep breath before continuing.

— Alright, Rodrigo. Let's go back a few steps. — He adjusted his watch, as though mentally marking the time. — You said you worked for a construction company in Brazil, right?

Rodrigo nodded.

— Yes. I worked as a construction assistant. I did concrete work, built walls, that kind of thing.

The investigator wrote down the answer but quickly looked up again.

— And how long did you stay in that job?

Rodrigo thought for a moment.

— I think a little over two years. I needed the money, so I took whatever came my way.

— Alright. — The investigator jotted something down quickly. — And before that? What did you do?

— Before that...? — Rodrigo repeated, frowning. — Well, I studied. I finished high school, but I couldn't get into college. I didn't have the money and... — He paused. — I had to work.

The investigator was silent for a moment, as if processing the answer.

— And your family? — he asked, breaking the silence. — Any recent contact with relatives?

Rodrigo shifted uncomfortably in his chair.

— No... I've said it before. My family... — He stopped, taking a deep breath. — My mother died when I was ten. My father disappeared sometime after that. The only one left was my older brother, but... — Rodrigo looked away. — We haven't spoken in years.

The investigator made more notes, the sound of the pen scratching the paper filling the room.

— I see. — Then he raised his eyes, focusing on Rodrigo again. — And friends? Anyone you kept in touch with before... all this?

Rodrigo chuckled softly, but without humor.

— Friends? — He shook his head. — I barely had time for that. I spent my days working, and when I got home, I was too exhausted to go out or talk to anyone.

The investigator raised an eyebrow.

— So you were pretty much alone?

Rodrigo let out a heavy sigh.

— I guess so...

The investigator made a few more notes before pushing the notebook aside and staring directly at Rodrigo.

— Alright, Rodrigo. Now explain something to me. — He pointed to the knife still in the plastic bag. — How does someone who claims to have such a normal life, with no ties and no problematic history, end up in the middle of a remote field, in the middle of the night, in another country, with a knife nearby?

Rodrigo's heart started to race.

— I... — He stammered, searching for the words. — I don't know! I've told you! I went to sleep in my house in Brazil! I have no idea how I ended up here.

The investigator kept his gaze fixed for a few seconds before letting out a light sigh.

— Alright. Let's set that aside for a moment. — He picked up the notebook again. — And about your phone? You said you used to carry one. What happened to it?

Rodrigo shook his head.

— I searched as soon as I woke up in the hospital, but it wasn't with me. Not even my wallet was.

The investigator jotted down a few more notes before stopping again.

— Alright... — He closed the notebook. — For now, that'll be all. But I need you to remain available for more questions if necessary.

Rodrigo let out a breath he didn't realize he was holding, feeling a momentary sense of relief. However, the investigator stood up and, before leaving, gave him one last look.

— Rodrigo... — he said. — Whatever is going on here, you'll need to be honest about everything. Sooner or later, the truth will come out.

The sound of the door closing echoed in the room, leaving Rodrigo alone once again. He ran his hands over his face and slouched in the chair, feeling the weight of the situation sink deeper.

Rodrigo leaned back in the uncomfortable chair, feeling the burden of the situation settle on his shoulders. His eyes wandered around the sterile, cold room, briefly landing on the camera in the top left corner. He knew he was being watched. Even though he was alone, he felt suffocated.

Where am I going to sleep?

The thought echoed in his mind like a distant bell. He had no answers. No clues. No plan. The investigator hadn't even mentioned what would happen after this interrogation. Would he be released? Detained? What if they just left him on the street?

He looked at his hands, studying the thin, pale fingers that still seemed foreign to him. This body... this life... nothing seemed real. The cold touch of the knife in the plastic bag on the table in front of him caught his attention, reminding him of his uncertain situation.

Rodrigo let out a frustrated sigh and ran his hand over his face.

What if they just let me out of here? Where do I go?

He knew he was in South Korea, but he had no idea which city or region. He didn't know the language — or at least he thought he didn't, until he discovered he spoke Korean fluently. This strange ability only added more questions to the already overwhelming list he couldn't answer.

Maybe Dr. Elias can help...

Rodrigo remembered the doctor. He seemed helpful and, at least, was also Brazilian. Maybe Elias could help him find a place to stay for a day or two until he figured out what was going on.

But then what? Rodrigo had no documents. No money. Nothing except that old phone and a knife that, for some reason, had been with him in the field where he was found.

The cold in his stomach grew. Panic was creeping closer, and Rodrigo closed his eyes, trying to push it away.

Calm down. First, I need to get out of here. Then I'll think about the rest.

But the thought wouldn't go away.

Rodrigo opened his eyes and looked again at the closed door. He couldn't stay here forever. Sooner or later, he would have to face the world outside — a world that, at that moment, seemed as unfamiliar as the reflection he had seen in the hospital window.

Maybe this is just the beginning...

The thought terrified him. Because if this was just the beginning, he had no idea how he would survive until the end.

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The cold, sterile light of the meeting room illuminated the metal table in the center of the room, where various documents and photographs were neatly arranged. Three investigators sat, while the fourth, the man who had interrogated Rodrigo, stood, holding a pen between his fingers and tapping it against the table. The rhythmic sound filled the heavy silence.

— This... — he began, turning to his colleagues — doesn't make any sense.

The investigator with thin glasses, sitting across from him, looked up.

— Which part? Because, honestly, nothing about this situation makes sense.

The older investigator, with graying hair and a scruffy beard, sighed as he flipped through the report in front of him.

— To begin with, this kid shows up out of nowhere, no documents, wearing a Japanese school uniform, and claims to be Brazilian. But his face... — He pulled out a photograph from the file and placed it in the center of the table. — It's identical to Shiki Tohno's.

The standing investigator nodded.

— Exactly. And here's the problem. — He took another folder and opened it, revealing a missing person report. — Shiki Tohno was reported missing five years ago. At the time, he was 15 years old and was returning to live with his family after spending several years in a rehabilitation clinic in Nagoya.

The investigator with glasses furrowed her brow.

— Rehabilitation?

— He was hit by a car when he was a child. He suffered severe injuries but survived. However, after the accident, there were reports of unstable behavior. Psychological issues. His family thought it best to have him institutionalized for a while. — He closed the folder. — And then, when he was finally released and heading home... he disappeared.

The older investigator shook his head.

— And now he shows up on the other side of the world, in South Korea, in a school uniform, claiming to be Brazilian. This doesn't add up.

— It really doesn't — the standing investigator added. — Because, according to him, his parents were a Korean and a Japanese who migrated to Brazil after World War II. He insists he lived in a slum in one of Brazil's capitals and worked in construction.

The investigator adjusted her glasses, flipping through the papers on the table.

— But nothing in the Brazilian records confirms that story. And even if he was adopted or used false identities, how do you explain the face identical to the missing boy?

— That's the issue. — The standing investigator crossed his arms. — I watched him closely during the interrogation. He's not lying. Or, if he is, he believes the lie so much that he's convinced himself of it.

The older investigator grabbed a plastic bag from the table and raised it. Inside, there was a folding knife.

— And what do we do with this? It was found with him in the field. No fingerprints linking him to another crime, but it's a strange item for a teenager to carry.

The investigator wrote something down in her notebook.

— I've already sent the knife for analysis. We'll see if anything comes up.

— Alright — said the older investigator, tossing the plastic bag back onto the table. — So what do we do with him now?

The standing investigator stared at the documents.

— First, we follow the protocols. Contact the Japanese authorities and inform them that someone resembling Shiki Tohno has been found here. If it's really him, maybe the family is still looking for him.

— And if it's not? — the investigator asked.

— If it's not, then we have a much bigger problem. Because, in that case, we're dealing with someone who doesn't exist in any official records.

The older investigator grumbled and leaned back in his chair.

— Either way, we're going to need to keep him under surveillance. This kid is a mystery, and I've seen mysteries like this before. They never end well.

The standing investigator nodded slowly, taking the folder and closing it firmly.

— I'll go back and continue talking to him. Until then, I want full checks. DNA, fingerprints, everything you can gather. If something's out of place, we'll find it.

As he left the room, the others remained silent, staring at the photograph of Rodrigo — or Shiki Tohno — as if they were looking at a puzzle without edges, whose pieces would never fit completely.

— Wait a minute — said the older investigator.

The older investigator leaned back in his chair, letting out a long sigh as he ran his hand through his scruffy beard. His tired eyes scanned each face around the table before finally speaking:

— I know this might sound absurd, but... what if we're dealing with a severe case of dissociation from reality? — He paused, as if choosing his words carefully. — You know what I'm talking about. Traumatic memory loss. And, as a defense mechanism, his brain created an entire narrative to deal with it. A new identity, a fabricated past.

The other investigators exchanged uncertain looks. The woman with glasses was the first to respond:

— Are you suggesting he went through some traumatic event and simply... erased who he was before?

— It's not impossible — the older man continued, leaning forward. — We've seen similar cases in the past. Not many, it's true, but they exist. People who lose all their memories and, instead of staying catatonic, rebuild an entire identity to fill the void. Something the brain does as a form of self-preservation.

The younger investigator, who had interrogated Rodrigo, furrowed his brow.

— But if that's the case, how do we explain the specific details he mentioned? He speaks Korean fluently but insists he's Brazilian. He described Brazil with authentic details, but his accent is clearly Japanese. And then there's the face... — He pointed to the photo of Shiki Tohno on the table. — It's identical.

— Exactly. — The older man pointed at the photo as well. — And that's where it gets even stranger. Because, if he really is Shiki Tohno, missing for five years, how do we explain his appearance here, in another country, with no records of any travel or movement? And, if he's not Shiki, then we have someone who shouldn't exist, but does.

The investigator with glasses took off her glasses and rubbed the bridge of her nose, visibly tense.

— This dissociation theory... it makes sense in part. But there are too many problems. For one, we haven't found any clear signs of recent physical trauma on him. And even if the trauma was purely psychological, we'd need a thorough psychiatric evaluation before we even consider this hypothesis seriously.

The younger investigator crossed his arms, maintaining a skeptical tone.

— I still think he believes the story he told. Whether it's a delusion or not, he speaks with conviction. If he's lying, he's a very good liar, or he truly believes in the narrative he's created.

— Or... — the older investigator intervened again, this time more somber — he's telling the truth, at least from his point of view. And we're the ones missing some crucial piece.

A silence fell over the room, broken only by the rustling of paper as the investigator rearranged the reports in front of her.

— Whatever it is — she finally said — we need to keep him under surveillance and continue gathering information. We'll request a psychiatric evaluation and more details about Shiki Tohno's disappearance in Japan. If the Japanese authorities confirm the identity, maybe we can contact the family.

The older investigator stood up, taking the photo and holding it before his eyes for a long moment before placing it back on the table.

— Do that. But keep an open mind. Because, in this case, the more answers we find, the more questions seem to arise.

With that, he left the room, leaving the other investigators still immersed in doubts and assumptions. The sound of the door closing echoed in the room as the mystery surrounding Rodrigo — or Shiki — continued to hang over them like an unsettling shadow.

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Rodrigo stared at the white, lifeless ceiling of the interrogation room, letting out a heavy sigh. He had been there for at least twenty minutes, alone, with nothing to do but listen to the muffled ticking of the clock on the wall. Time seemed to drag on, each second echoing like a constant, irritating drip.

He shifted in the hard, uncomfortable chair, feeling the muscles in his back begin to protest the position. For a brief moment, he thought about pulling out the old phone Dr. Elias had given him, just to pass the time, maybe mess with some settings or check if there was anything on it that could serve as a distraction.

But he quickly dismissed the idea.

"Better not give them any reason to be suspicious..."

Even though he knew the police had already searched him before bringing him to the station, Rodrigo preferred not to take any chances. As professional as they seemed, there was always the chance they would interpret any unexpected movement as suspicious.

He leaned his elbows on the cold metal table and looked at the cameras strategically placed in the corners of the room. They were like watchful eyes, always observing, always waiting. The thought made him uncomfortable, as if he were naked even though he was fully dressed.

"This is taking too long..."

Rodrigo ran a hand through his hair, feeling the smooth strands slip between his fingers — another reminder that this body wasn't his. He looked at the distorted reflection on one of the metal surfaces of the table, observing the face that still seemed strange to him.

The grayish-blue eyes stared back, an empty, lost gaze. The delicate, almost feminine features gave him a fragile appearance, something that bothered him deeply.

"This isn't who I am..."

He clenched his fists for a moment, then exhaled slowly. There was no point in losing his composure now.

Rodrigo turned his gaze away from the reflection and tried to focus on something else — anything. His memories remained jumbled, disconnected fragments of his life before mixed with the image of that woman with crimson eyes.

"That woman... who the hell was she?"

He closed his eyes, trying to force the memory to take shape. Delicate hands touching his face, a soft, almost ethereal voice calling him master. The field of lilies under the light of the moon. And then, that damn voice that tore the moment in half, ripping him from that place and throwing him back into reality.

Rodrigo opened his eyes again, tasting the bitter frustration. Nothing made sense. Nothing seemed real.

Before he could sink further into these thoughts, the sound of the door opening interrupted his train of thought. He immediately straightened in the chair, turning his gaze to the entrance.

One of the investigators entered the room, with a neutral expression, but his eyes scanning every detail of Rodrigo. He held a notebook and a file under his arm.

"I hope the wait wasn't too bad," the man said, closing the door behind him and walking to the chair on the other side of the table.

Rodrigo didn't respond immediately. He just crossed his arms and kept his gaze fixed on the man, waiting for the next move.

The investigator sat down, opened the file, and flipped through a few pages before raising his eyes again.

"Let's pick up where we left off, Rodrigo. I have a few questions," he said, adjusting the notebook on the table. "And I hope you're willing to cooperate."

Rodrigo let out a brief sigh and nodded.

"Alright... Let's get this over with."

The room was filled once again with the sound of the pen scratching paper as the interrogation continued.

The investigator tapped his fingers on the table for a moment, as if organizing his thoughts before continuing. He lifted his gaze to Rodrigo, fixing him with a studied expression — neither severe nor friendly. Just cold and analytical.

"Rodrigo..." he began, drawing out the name. "Are you sure you clearly remember your life before waking up in the hospital?"

Rodrigo narrowed his eyes, crossing his arms on the table.

"I've already told you everything I know. I worked in Brazil, in construction. I had an ordinary life, paying bills, living paycheck to paycheck. And now I'm here, with no idea how I ended up in this country."

The investigator held his gaze steady.

"And this... certainty? Are you absolutely sure?" He leaned slightly forward, as if about to press harder. "Because, you see, what you describe doesn't match what we have on record."

Rodrigo felt a chill run up his spine. He maintained his firm posture, but there was a growing tension in his chest.

"What do you mean?" he asked, trying to hide the nervousness.

The investigator opened the file and turned one of the papers toward Rodrigo. On it was a complete dossier, with a photo and detailed information. That was when Rodrigo felt his blood run cold.

The photo showed the face he now had. The same dark hair, the same grayish-blue eyes. And the name printed above the photo was: Shiki Tohno.

"This is you, isn't it?" The investigator tapped his finger on the paper. "Shiki Tohno. Japanese. Seventeen years old. Missing for two months, shortly after leaving a hospital in Kyoto."

Rodrigo blinked several times, his mind trying to process the information.

"This has to be a mistake. I'm not this guy! My name is Rodrigo, I'm Brazilian!"

The investigator remained calm.

"Are you?" he asked, leaning back in his chair. "And how do you explain the fact that you were found wearing his school uniform? Or the pocket knife that was in your possession, registered as property of this boy?"

Rodrigo opened his mouth to respond, but no words came out. He looked again at the dossier on the table, then at the investigator.

"Is this some kind of joke?" He laughed nervously, but the investigator showed no reaction.

"I'm not joking, Rodrigo," the man said, tapping his finger on the dossier again. "So I'll ask again: are you sure you remember your life?"

Rodrigo pressed his temples, feeling a headache beginning to pulse. His mind was spinning. No matter how hard he tried, the memories of his life in Brazil seemed more and more distant, like foggy dreams slipping through his fingers.

But he knew they were real. They had to be.

He looked at the investigator and, with a trembling voice, answered:

"I... I don't know what's happening. But I know who I am. And I'm not this guy."

The investigator wrote something in his notebook without looking away.

"That's exactly what someone with dissociative identity disorder would say," he muttered, as if speaking to himself. "Well, Rodrigo... or Shiki, this is still going to take some time to sort out. For now, cooperate with us."

Rodrigo felt the tension grow in his chest. He looked again at the dossier, trying to find something, anything that could prove this was a mistake. But the face staring back at him in the photo was the same as the one he saw in the reflection.

Panic began to creep under his controlled facade. He clenched his fists and took a deep breath, trying to stay calm.

"This can't be happening..."

Rodrigo let out a heavy sigh, feeling the accumulated tension explode all at once. Unable to hold it in any longer, he let his body fall forward and placed his forehead on the cold metal table.

"Dammit..." he muttered, his voice muffled against the smooth surface. "I'm so tired of this..."

The investigator furrowed his brow and leaned slightly forward, but Rodrigo kept talking, as if unloading everything that had been trapped in his mind.

"That Shiki Tohno guy..." Rodrigo lifted his head just enough to stare at the man, his eyes heavy with exhaustion and frustration. "He's a fictional character. F-I-C-T-I-O-N-A-L!"

The investigator blinked, surprised by the tone and the unexpected words.

"What?"

"You heard me!" Rodrigo gestured sharply, pointing at the paper on the table. "This guy is from a game. A visual novel called Tsukihime. I played it years ago! I literally controlled this guy on my computer screen!"

The investigator now seemed completely lost. He glanced at the papers in front of him, then returned his gaze to Rodrigo, as if waiting for this to be some poorly thought-out joke.

"Rodrigo... do you have any idea what you're saying?" he asked slowly.

"Of course, I do!" Rodrigo slapped his hand on the table, making a dry sound echo through the room. "You think I don't know the difference between reality and fiction? This guy, Shiki, he's just a character. He wears glasses to control his Mystic Eyes and sees death lines everywhere. He was adopted by a rich family after almost dying in an accident! This is all game lore, man!"

The investigator leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms as he tried to process what he had just heard.

"So... you're saying you believe all this is... fiction?"

"It's not a matter of belief." Rodrigo ran his hands through his hair, visibly shaken. "I know it is. Because I lived in Brazil, I worked at a construction company, had debts, problems, a messed-up life. This... " He pointed to himself. "This isn't me! It's like I fell into some crazy story!"

The investigator remained silent for a few seconds, as if carefully choosing his words.

"Rodrigo, I understand that this is hard for you. But... the records we have don't lie. You've been identified as Shiki Tohno. Even the fingerprint analysis matches."

Rodrigo's eyes widened, his heart racing.

"What do you mean 'matches'? This doesn't make sense!"

The investigator sighed, grabbed a notepad, and scribbled something before continuing:

"It might not make sense to you right now, but we have to work with the facts. I don't know what's happening here... whether it's amnesia, dissociation, or something else. But we need to figure it out."

Rodrigo squeezed his eyes shut and massaged his temples, trying to push away the growing feeling of desperation.

"You're not getting it... I know this guy doesn't exist in real life. I know his story. I played his story."

The investigator stared at him for a few more seconds before letting out a long sigh.

"Alright. Let's wrap this up for today. You need to rest, and we need to review this information."

Rodrigo just shook his head slowly, leaning back on the table as the exhaustion weighed down on him.

"This can't be real..."

But as much as he wanted to believe he was trapped in a nightmare, everything around him seemed to say the opposite.