The resolution

The interrogation room smelled of stale air and cheap disinfectants. Jonas' jacket hung over the back of the chair as if it would soon need another body. In front of him lay the recording device, small and patient.

The investigator had shown him the recording, the video of the evening, which a young waitress had secretly made with her cell phone. He himself on stage, in the background the dead man, beaming. Then the jingle, the beginning of the chorus, the grim expression he thought he was hiding. Later, out of focus, a shadow in the hallway, two figures, a jerk, a fall.

The soundtrack had done the rest. You couldn't understand the argument word for word, but enough to know that it wasn't just about music. By years. About roles. For power.

Jonas saw his fingers on the table, trembling slightly. Someone else might have claimed that it was easier to deny everything. A lawyer had offered him this way, neatly packaged.

But in his head, the night ran in an endless loop. The sound with which a skull hits wood. And then this sudden, complete silence when the song broke off. For the first time since he existed.

"I pushed him," he finally said. The words sounded sober, almost boring. "I wanted him to stop. Not to breathe. Just to sing."

Outside, others would decide how much intent to kill had been in this push. Inside, in him, the verdict had long since been pronounced.