I’m in the Carson basement, the air heavy and cold, the kind that clings to your skin and makes time feel like it’s stuck in place. I’m tied to a chair, wrists pulled tight behind me, the rope digging in just enough to make every small movement feel pointless. My body’s beat up badly, bruised and sore from everything they think I did, even though I didn’t do any of it. They believe I was the one who hit Jane with my car, leaving her with a broken leg and a broken finger. That’s what they’re locked onto, like it’s already been proven, like there’s no other version of the story that exists. But it wasn’t me at all. What makes it worse is how they’re choosing to see it. I was driving a Dodge SRT Hellcat, loud, heavy, unmistakable. But the car that actually hit her was a Tesla, and the guy who was driving it was white. Somehow that detail doesn’t even register for them the same way. It’s like they’ve already decided who fits the blame and nothing else matters. Every sound upstairs feels sharper than it should, footsteps turning into judgment before anyone even speaks. The basement feels tighter with every passing second, like the walls are leaning in just to make sure I don’t miss a word of what’s coming next. And all I can think is how fast everything collapsed into this moment, where the truth is sitting right there, but nobody in this house is looking at it.