Murder Suspect

"Name."

In the dark interrogation room, only a single harsh beam shone on Su Ming's face. He kept his head lowered, unable to make out who in the darkness was questioning him.

But he knew he was shackled tightly to the chair, and there had to be heavily armed police officers standing guard outside the door.

"Slade."

A mutter came from the darkness, too indistinct to make out. Soon, another clear question followed.

"Age."

Su Ming turned his head away from the light, but someone controlled the lamp, and the beam remained fixed on his face.

"Twenty-five."

"Where were you born?" It was the same voice as before, dripping with disgust, as though it were talking to a pile of shit.

Su Ming thought back. His childhood memories had grown hazy, but at least he still knew where home was.

"Gotham."

"Tsk, tsk, tsk. Gotham indeed. That shithole produces nothing but trash and pollutes our city."

Whatever the person in the darkness did, after lamenting that all Gothamites were garbage, every light in the interrogation room suddenly came on.

A meter away from Su Ming sat two police officers built like fat pigs. One of them had just switched off the glaring lamp.

Their badges were pinned to the breast pockets of their suits, warped by their enormous "pectoral muscles." As they leaned forward, their chairs let out the groan of fatigued metal.

The officers did not seem to care. They slammed both hands onto the table with a loud bang.

"Talk. How did you murder the editor-in-chief's family last night?"

The officer with a different voice from before asked the question. He adjusted his suit as he spoke, smugly stroking his little mustache.

"I didn't kill anyone. I've never even killed a chicken."

Bang! The other officer slammed the