Teufel sat alone in the interrogation room.
A single metal chair stood at the center, bolted to the floor. His small hands rested loosely on his knees, his head tilted downward as if he were staring into something only he could see. His eyes were wide, unfocused — not with fear, but with the effort of trying to understand something happening inside him.
The room was bright. Too bright. White lights hummed overhead, washing the walls in sterile color. Yet despite the light, the space felt heavy… darker than it should have been. As if something unseen lingered in the corners.
Outside the glass window, a police officer stood guard, rifle hanging from his shoulder. Every now and then, he glanced nervously at the boy inside.
Four hours had passed since Yui's death.
The clock mounted above the door ticked past 1:00 a.m.
Time moved, but for Teufel, everything felt frozen.
Inside his mind, thoughts clashed like a storm at sea. Confusion, curiosity, exhaustion, fragments of memories — all colliding at once. Yet strangely, none of them settled into a clear emotion. Nothing felt whole.
Just noise.
The door finally opened.
Two officers stepped in.
Both men appeared to be in their early -thirties, their uniforms neat, their expressions tired from the long night. One carried himself with forced calm; the other with visible irritation.
They sat across from the child.
The calmer one leaned slightly forward, trying to soften his voice.
"Let's start simple," he said. "My name is Oliver. And this is Inspector Tom."
Tom gave only a brief nod, his eyes fixed on the boy.
Oliver continued, almost gently.
"What's your name, kid?"
For several seconds, Teufel didn't move. Then, without lifting his gaze, he answered in a cracked, dry voice.
"T… Teufel Kruger."
Oliver blinked, surprised.
"Teufel? That means 'devil,' doesn't it?" He forced a small laugh. "Quite a scary name, huh? Do you li—"
"Enough, Oliver."
Tom's voice cut sharply through the room.
His patience had already worn thin.
"This kid killed someone," Tom snapped. "Not just anyone — his own mother. Reports say there was no abuse, no mental condition diagnosed. Nothing. He just did it."
Tom's jaw tightened.
"I'm telling you — this kid is a psychopath."
Silence filled the room again.
Oliver exhaled slowly, rubbing his temples.
"Tom… he's eight years old," he replied quietly. "Kids don't do something like this without a reason. We shouldn't jump to conclusions. Let's talk to him first."
Before either officer could continue, Teufel slowly raised his head.
His expression was empty. No tears. No panic.
Just calm.
"There's no need," he said. "Ask anything you want. I don't care whether I live or die now."
Both officers froze slightly at the words.
Oliver frowned.
"Alright… then tell us something honestly." He leaned forward. "Why did you kill your mother?"
For a moment, Teufel seemed to search for an answer himself.
Then he spoke, his tone flat.
"I… don't know."
Tom scoffed in frustration, but Teufel continued.
"There was no need to do it. I know that. But… something inside my mind… pushed me. A very strong urge."
Tom frowned. "Urge?"
Teufel nodded slightly.
"I don't know how to explain it… but it felt like this…"
He paused, choosing his words carefully.
"My mother gave birth to me as a normal human. So… I killed the one who gave birth to me… and gave birth to myself again."
The words hung in the air.
Tom's face paled slightly.
"That's exactly what I meant," he muttered. "This kid… he's a devil."
Oliver didn't respond immediately. He simply studied the boy in front of him — small, thin, and disturbingly calm.
Finally, Oliver asked one last question.
"Tell me something, Teufel."
His voice was quiet now.
"What are you feeling right now?"
He counted them off slowly.
"Anger?"
"Sadness?"
"Guilt?"
"Fear?"
"…Or pleasure?"
Teufel blinked once, as if the question confused him.
He looked inward again, searching.
Then answered calmly.
"The emotion I'm feeling right now?"
A faint pause.
"Oh… right."
"I'm feeling… nothing."
Oliver pushed his chair back and stood.
Tom followed, shaken despite himself.
Neither man said another word as they walked out, the heavy door closing behind them.
Once again, the room fell silent.
Teufel lowered his gaze.
And returned to staring at the floor.
As if waiting for something inside him to finally make sense.
News of the incident spread faster than anyone expected.
By the next morning, every newspaper carried the same headline: an eight-year-old boy had murdered his own mother. Radios repeated the story. Television debates erupted. Reporters stood outside police stations and court buildings, speaking with grave expressions.
The country was stunned.
People argued endlessly.
Some whispered, "That child is the Devil himself."
Others claimed, "No, the Devil must be controlling him."
Some people refused to even say his name aloud.
Fear gave birth to superstition, and superstition gave birth to rumors.
Meanwhile, inside the interrogation building, time crawled forward.
Eight hours had passed since Oliver and Tom left the room.
The clock now read 9:00 a.m.
The corridor outside was busy again — footsteps, murmurs, ringing phones — but inside the interrogation room, silence still ruled.
The door opened once more.
An older man entered, around fifty years of age. His posture was stiff, disciplined. A black coat hung neatly over his shoulders, giving him the appearance of either a judge or a senior lawyer.
In his hand, he carried a suitcase.
He sat down across from Teufel without greeting him and calmly placed the case on the table. Metal clasps clicked open, and he removed a small recording device.
His voice carried authority — and impatience.
"May I record this?"
Teufel simply nodded.
The device was placed on the table. A small red light blinked to life.
The man leaned back slightly, looking at the boy with clear superiority.
"Let's skip introductions. I know who you are and what you've done. My identity doesn't matter. Nothing you learn about me will change what happens next."
He adjusted his coat.
"German law does not allow imprisonment for someone under eighteen. So technically, you should be safe. This conversation is only a formality — something for records."
Then, a faint, cold smile appeared.
"But understand something, kid. Even if you're released, your life will never be normal again."
He leaned forward slightly.
"People have already named you."
A short laugh escaped him.
"The Devil."
For the first time, Teufel responded with curiosity rather than indifference.
"The Devil…?" he asked quietly. "Why do they call me that?"
The man replied bluntly.
"Because you killed your own mother. Most people cannot even imagine doing such a thing."
Teufel blinked slowly.
"So… killing someone is wrong?"
The man frowned.
"Of course it is. If you were an adult, you would have faced execution for it."
A pause followed.
Then Teufel spoke again, still emotionless.
"Then what is the difference between you and me?"
The judge's expression hardened.
"You killed someone. Punishment is different."
"But punishment means killing too, doesn't it?" Teufel continued calmly. "If killing is wrong… why is it right when you do it?"
The man's jaw tightened.
"That's not the same thing."
"Why not?"
Teufel's tone never rose. It remained quiet, almost innocent.
"I thought about killing… and then I did it. Others think about it but don't do it. So they're good, and I'm bad?"
Silence stretched across the table.
Teufel continued, voice steady.
"Doesn't everyone think about killing someone at least once? Doesn't that mean… there's a devil inside everyone?"
The judge's patience cracked.
"Thinking and doing are different!" he snapped.
"Why?" Teufel asked softly. "If everyone feels it… then justice only punishes the one who acts. Isn't that discrimination?"
The room felt smaller, heavier.
"Humans are controlled by emotions," Teufel continued. "And your justice only controls those emotions using fear. Isn't that true?"
The judge stared at the child.
For several long seconds, he said nothing.
Then suddenly, in a burst of frustration, he struck the table, knocking the recorder aside. The device shattered against the floor.
His composure was gone.
His voice trembled — not from anger now, but something closer to fear.
"You're not normal," he muttered. "You're dangerous."
Teufel looked at him calmly.
"Think about what I said," the boy replied quietly. "Every word."
The judge left the room almost in a hurry.
And later that day, he appeared before the media.
Standing behind microphones, he delivered the decision: Teufel Kruger would receive life imprisonment. Though existing laws protected minors, a special exception was declared for this case.
The announcement shook the nation.
Laws were not meant to change for a single child.
Behind closed doors, the decision cost the judge dearly. His career collapsed soon after, his reputation destroyed. Personal troubles followed, and within the next year, his life fell apart completely.
The judge takes his on Life in 1957.
Meanwhile, Teufel was transferred to Tegel Prison in Berlin, one of Germany's largest facilities.
For a time, his story remained famous.
But fame fades.
Weeks turned into months. Months into years. New tragedies replaced old headlines.
Eventually, the world forgot the child they once called the Devil.
He became just another prisoner.
Another criminal.
Until two years later.
1956.
A normal afternoon.
People were at work. Children were at school. Markets were busy.
Then the news arrived.
And once again, the country stopped.
"Teufel Kruger," the report stated,
"the child sentenced to life imprisonment in Tegel Prison, has died at the age of ten."
And just like that—
the silence returned.