Washington DC

I sit on an uncomfortable metal chair, head down and looking at my bandaged palms, each movement of which causes a pulling pain. The wounds on them begin to heal and I terribly want to get rid of the bandages in order to properly scratch the place of the cuts, reminders of the events that have occurred. I know that in just a few seconds the door will open and an FBI agent will enter the room, conducting the case of the "collector", and, wanting to check myself, I start counting the steps:

- Five, four, three, two, one ... - and indeed, at number one, the door...