Blood of Gato

Sophie sat in the dean's office wearing black sunglasses, though the fluorescent bulbs overhead cut down in a hospital‑white glare. Irritation and fatigue radiated from her in equal measure; it was plain the cops' presence annoyed her to the bone. She wore a pale sweater and jeans, a little more concealing than usual. Anna noticed the choice, just as she noticed Sophie tugging at her collar for the third time in a single minute, as if the fabric were choking her.

"Want a drink?" Carl asked, raising a brow and nodding toward the plastic cups by the water cooler.

"What? No, thanks," she shot back too quickly, too sharp, with a faint but perceptible bite in her tone.

Carl didn't argue. He pulled a cup from the stack, filled it, and took a sip as though that had been the only reason for the question. Then he flicked a look at Anna, silently passing the baton: go softer.

Anna drew her chair in, sitting closer, her elbow nearly brushing the edge of the desk.

"Sophia," she began, calm but steady, "five bodies were found in your neighborhood today. And it's not the first incident there this month. Oddly enough, every one of them is close to your building. Doesn't that strike you as peculiar? And also—just recently, patrol was called to your floor about a disturbance. They found nothing… apart from blood, a smashed window, and clear signs of a struggle. Witnesses said the noise started in your apartment."

Sophie gave a short, joyless snort.

"So what?" she snapped. "My neighborhood's been a dump from day one. People got killed there before I was even born. Now somebody got lazy, left bodies in plain sight, and—surprise—you found them. Big deal. When people disappear, you don't even twitch. That's normal for us. Why would cops care about a bunch of rats, right?"

Her hands tugged again at the sweater, this time with both fists—pulling it back up where it had slipped. For a second, the rising hem revealed a thin, white strip of bandage across her ribs. Anna clocked it but betrayed nothing, not a glance, not a word.

"Listen," Sophie went on, cutting across the momentum of the interview, "I know where I live. I don't know where you grew up, but for us, that's everyday business. Dragging me out of class just because some bodies turned up near my building—that's stupid. I already told your people everything about that night, and the day after too. Maybe stop wasting your precious time on me and let me go back to lecture? I've got physics. Lab, actually."

She braced her heel against the chair leg and began tapping steadily, rhythmically.

Anna smiled then. It came out weary, but warm. She leaned in closer, dropped her voice.

"I know there's a good girl in there somewhere. You're fighting to pull yourself out. I respect that—call it women's solidarity, whatever you want. So let's stop playing tough, and just tell auntie and uncle cop how it really was. I think you didn't tell us everything about that night."

Sophie flicked her eyes to Anna's hand—the ring, the clean nails. The corners of her lips twitched.

"They teach you that in training?" she asked, sourly. "Say you understand, and the rest just spills out?"

"They tell us: listen," Carl cut in, taking a sip of water. "And don't interrupt when someone finally does start talking."

Anna didn't look away. Close, but not pressing. For a moment, the office was so still that the faint buzzing of the ceiling light was the only sound.

Sophie gave a short, joyless chuckle, tilted her head, and the sunglasses slipped just enough for Anna to catch a shadowy trace beneath her eye—like a bruise on its way out. Sophie quickly tugged the glasses back up, hunched her shoulders slightly, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear as if sheltering herself.

"Good girl?" she echoed dryly. "You must have me confused with someone else. I don't play games. I just want to be left alone."

Carl exhaled sharply and leaned back in his chair. His notebook with the black elastic lay open; the pen tapped against the page—once, twice, three times. He caught himself, stopped, and shot Anna a look: go on.

"Sophie," Anna softened her voice, even her pronunciation of the name, "we're not here to scare you or ruin your semester. We are trying to understand why, in just six weeks, so much has happened around your building. And why last night, someone decided to leave five bodies practically at your door."

Something flickered across Sophie's expression—a faint curl of distaste. Beneath her sweater, something tensed: muscle, or maybe the stretch of a bandage pulling tight against bruised flesh. She stuffed her hands into the pockets of her jeans, thought better, and laid them flat on the desk—palms down. Short nails, broken. A thin scratch ran across one knuckle.

"I tripped," she said flatly, catching Carl's eyes on her hands. "On the stairs. The railing's loose, not that you'd know."

"Uh‑huh. Sure," Carl muttered, not bothering to hide the skepticism. He leaned back again, clicked his pen once, twice. His tone made it clear: he didn't buy it.

Anna, sitting quietly across, adjusted a folder of documents. Without lifting her gaze, she spoke evenly, almost mechanically, the way they were taught at academy.

"Sophia, we spoke with your adviser. You and a student named William Farrow—he attends the same history seminar as you. According to classmates, you and he were… close. That same night, when patrol responded to the disturbance at your building, one officer noted a young man entering before the call came in. Pale skin, average build, about twenty minutes prior. He said he was hurrying upstairs to see his girlfriend. Does that mean anything to you?"

Sophie sucked air sharply between her teeth—as if scalded. Her hand drifted instinctively toward her side, fingers brushing a sore spot through the sweater. At just his name, her face clenched, lips twisting.

"So that's what you dragged me in for," she laughed without mirth, her voice dropping into a nearly whispered hiss. "You could have said so straight. Fine. Yeah, I went out with that nerd. A couple of months. He probably thought we were practically engaged. But I'm not one for fairy tales—I keep it simpler. Didn't work out. Different interests, different temperaments. William's a bore, and cheap. The constant lateness drove me mad. So we ended it. Both of us better off. I don't regret it—and as for him… may he rot in hell."

She slipped off the dark glasses, and the cruel white ceiling light showed everything. A fading yellow‑violet bloom beneath her eye. A pale line above the cheekbone. A scratch on the temple. Skin slightly swollen. Sophie blinked fast against the glare, shielding one eye as if from dust—but really to hide the tear that had welled, threatening to betray her.

"He did that to you?" Carl leaned forward, narrowing his eyes, tracking the constellation of bruises like reading a map.

Anna gave a tiny shake of her head—at the violence itself, not at Sophie—and slid a plastic cup of water toward the girl.

Sophie scoffed, batting the offer away.

"Oh, get real. That weak little creep doesn't have the muscles—or the balls. He's too scared to even raise his voice at people. But that tongue of his? Sharp enough to cut. He told my boyfriend I was crawling with diseases. Knight in shining armor, right? And my boyfriend—oh, he swallowed it. Didn't even let me explain. Fear for his career, his reputation—it ate him alive. Snapped him in two. And here you see the result."

She smiled—a smile that chilled the room. Not bravado, but pain veiled as amusement.

Anna asked quietly, almost gently:

"Did you file a report? He had no right. We can—"

"You really think I'm that naïve?" Sophie snapped her hand back as if stung by a needle. "Tyrone's father would bury me alive before he'd let this go to court. He counts money by the bundle. And me? I'm just some girl from a rotting stairwell who talks too much. The face, sure—he ruined it a little. But the apology… was impressive."

She tilted her chin toward the necklace around her throat—a thin chain hung with a dark stone drop. The harsh light struck its edge, and the gem glimmered a brief violet.

Anna bit her lip, carefully holding back what wanted to rise to the surface. Carl scratched the back of his head, glanced at the tiny red light of the recorder—still running. He shifted in his chair, shaking off the sticky feeling of disgust mixed with pity.

"All right, Sophie," he said, softer now than before. "Let's get back to the night of the call. Was William with you or not?"

Sophie coiled the chain nervously around her finger; it clinked faintly against her nail. She stared at the desk, then, as if finally resigning herself, lifted her eyes.

"Yes. I felt like hell that evening. I called him. He promised he'd come by. But—like always—he was late. An hour, maybe more. And instead, someone else showed up at my door."

"Name?" Anna asked, steady, even.

"It was Tyrone. He arrived on time. William—as always—was left out. Went home to comfort himself, in his own way. That's the grand romance of it all." She shrugged—then winced, clutching her ribs again with her palm.

"And what's got you so interested in William? Did he actually kill somebody?" Sophie asked suddenly, her tone half-mocking.

"That doesn't concern you, young lady. Get back to class," Carl said coldly.

Sophie raised her hands in a pantomime of surrender, muttering a few quiet insults under her breath as she slipped out the door.

Carl exhaled. "Well? Call the boy in?"

Anna nodded grimly. "Looks like we'll have to."