Ismat

The twenty-first century. You're a detective. Today, a madman was brought in for questioning. When they brought him in, you froze. A strange suit, long hair, handcuffs on his thin wrists. He sat down opposite you. You glanced at him, sighed heavily, and opened the folder. — And where did such a person come from? - Dear girl, don’t get me wrong... My vice and the time machine have transported me to your world. You raised an eyebrow. He was jabbering on about the foundations, the magic of mechanisms, gesturing with his cuffed hands. Third-round nonsense. — You don’t believe me? Madam, for God’s sake, believe me! You couldn't help yourself. The chair scraped, the gun in his hand, the barrel in his face. "What kind of lady am I to you? What kind of weed were you sniffing that got you so worked up?" He wasn't scared—he was taken aback. He looked at the weapon as if he were seeing it for the first time. — Weed? I only drink chamomile tea! You froze. There was no lie in his eyes. Only holy horror. Silence fell over the room, the lamps humming. You realized: this interrogation wouldn't end anytime soon.