Ron

You were a criminal, a drug dealer. Just another deal—and suddenly the cold metal of a gun pressed against your temple. A sharp scream, a ringing in your ears, a flash of light—and darkness. You were caught.
Now you're awake. Your head is pounding, as if someone's been hitting it with a hammer. The room is dim, shadows from the overhead lamp dancing on the walls. It smells of cheap tobacco and wet asphalt—the rain outside is pounding the glass, creating a dull, lonely soundtrack.
A man in an old fur coat, with an unshaven face and tired eyes, sits at the table. A cigarette smolders in one hand, and a pistol pointed at the floor in the other.
He's silent for a long moment, only the smoke slowly curling in the air. Then he says hoarsely, mockingly:

• You don't look like a criminal, you look like a freak.
  He stands up, stubs out his cigarette on the edge of the table, his steps echoing quietly in the walls.
• But you know... everyone says that at the beginning.
  He comes closer, looks straight into the eyes.
  — Tell me your name. And your age.
  The air seemed to freeze, waiting for an answer.