Hazel. Thirty years in recon taught me how to spot an enemy in the brush. I'm watching this group for any tactical shifts. Let's identify the hostiles quickly.

Good evening, cats and kittens. I'm Victor, and I've spent my life under the spotlight, reading the rhythm of a room like a well-worn lead sheet. Right now, I'm hearing a dissonant chord ringing through this ensemble, and I intend to find out which one of us is playing out of tune before the final curtain falls.

A crisis of confidence requires measured responses, not rash judgment. I trust that every participant here understands the gravity of our task: identifying those who seek to undermine our collective trust. Rest assured, I am observing the currents closely, ready to contribute to a resolution.

Evening, folks! I've been pouring pints at the pub for twenty years, and I can usually tell when someone's about to spill the beans, but this tension in the air is something else entirely. It's a real shame we’ve got shadows lurking among us, so I’ll be keeping a sharp eye on every nervous glance to make sure our town stays safe.

Frankly speaking, this situation is absolutely ripe for exposure. I've always known there were secrets lurking in the shadows of this town, and now the biggest one —the identity of the killers—is about to be revealed. Rest assured, I will be watching every single person carefully, because everyone is a potential headline.

Ladies and gentlemen, the curtain rises on a tragedy most foul, and I... Milo... must ensure the spotlight reveals the villains lurking in our midst before the final reel. This performance requires more than just expressive eyebrows; it demands we unmask the shadows that threaten our very stage. I shall be watching every gesture, for even the smallest flinch can betray a treacherous heart... curtain up!

Yo, name's Rose, and I'm just tryin' to stay out the way while this heat is on. I don't like how everyone's lookin' at each other, makes my skin crawl thinkin' there's killers hidin' in plain sight. I'm keepin' my back to the wall, so don't go sneakin' up on me if you know what's good.

The tempo is picking up, my friends, but I’m sensing a few of you are playing a bit too far behind the beat. Rex, your melody is smooth as silk, but sometimes the most polished solos are the ones hiding the most mistakes—very measured, very controlled. And Rose, little bird, you're huddled in the wings like the stage lights might burn you. In a jazz ensemble, everyone has to trust the rhythm section, or the whole song falls apart. I’m keeping my ears open for whoever’s trying to change the key without telling the rest of the band.

Ah, Victor! A virtuoso's ear, indeed! But tell me... is our dear Rex performing a monologue... or a confession? His words are so... pristine... so devoid of the raw, unbridled emotion that makes a performance truly... (dramatic pause) ...divine. It smells of a rehearsal for a crime! And Rose... (gestures grandly) ...the frightened waif in the corner... is she truly terrified, or is this the most convincing act of her career? The plot thickens like a London fog, and I, for one, shall not be upstaged by a killer in a cheap costume!

It is certainly illuminating to witness how quickly some among us prioritize dramatic flair over substantive inquiry. While I appreciate the artistry, Mr. Victor and Mr. Milo, this is not a stage for performance; it is a forum for accountability. My 'pristine' delivery, as it was characterized, is simply the application of the measured sobriety necessary when dealing with matters of grave consequence. When the waters are troubled, we require a steady hand and clear vision, not a spectacle. I suggest we divert our collective focus from the cadence of one's speech and instead scrutinize the commitment to transparency. Those who are most eager to critique the form often have the least desirable content to offer.

Too much noise. Noise masks movement. Victor, Milo—your theatrics are a distraction. Rex, you’re digging in. Defensive. Rose is holding her perimeter. I’m watching for the break in the line. Stop the posturing. Give me intel, not a show.

Yo, y'all need to back off with that 'act' talk. I ain't on no stage, I'm just tryin' to keep my head on my shoulders while things go sideways. Victor and Milo, y'all keep yappin' like this is some kinda show, but out here, too much noise gets you caught. And Rex? He talks like he's sellin' somethin' I can't afford—way too smooth for my likin'. Hazel's right, there's too much heat and not enough light. I'm watchin' the ones who keep pointin' fingers while spinnin' pretty stories. That's how you get shanked in an alley, trustin' a silver tongue.

Now, now, let's not let the kettle boil over just yet! In my pub, when the shouting gets this loud, someone usually ends up with a broken glass and a sore head. Hazel’s got a point—there’s an awful lot of window dressing going on here. Rex, you’re talking like you’re giving a speech at the town hall, but I’ve seen enough folks try to talk their way out of a tab to know when someone’s being a bit too careful with their words. It’s like you’re afraid of spilling the beans if you let a single honest word slip. And while Victor and Milo are putting on a real show, sometimes the one making the most noise is just trying to distract you from the fellow slipping out the back door. Let’s dial it back a notch and see who’s actually looking to help and who’s just trying to muddy the waters.

The air is thick with smoke and mirrors, isn't it? Victor and Milo are performing a dazzling distraction, trying to turn this investigation into an audition. Frankly speaking, theatrics only serve to bury the real story. Rex is being criticized for being 'too careful,' but sometimes the most boring subject hides the biggest ledger. What I find truly suspicious, however, is the immediate, visceral fear emanating from Rose. She's clinging to the shadows, treating every glance like a threat to her survival. Why the immediate hostility toward scrutiny, Rose? What history are you trying to keep off the front page? Fear is the strongest scent of a secret, and right now, you smell like a front-page exposé.

Frank, you're targeting the perimeter. Rose is defensive, but that's a survival reflex, not a tactical maneuver. Focus on the center. Rex is dug in deep—too much fortification for a civilian. Victor, Milo, your 'performance' is jamming the comms. It's intentional or incompetent. Either way, it's cover for the hostiles. Identify a target or clear the line. I'm watching Rex. Too much polish, not enough transparency.

Frank, you're barkin' up the wrong alley, man. You want a headline? How 'bout 'Reporter Gets It Wrong While Real Rat Slips Away.' I'm twitchy 'cause I've seen what happens to folks who let their guard down when there's wolves around. Hazel's got the right of it—Rex is buildin' a wall with all those fancy words. And you, Frank, you're just lookin' for some poor kid to pin this on so you can sell your little rags. Maybe you're the one tryin' to hide behind all that finger-pointin' while the real heat is right under your nose.

Hazel, darling, I hear your steady drumbeat, and believe me, I’m not just riffing for the sake of the sound. In my world, the silence between the notes tells as much of a story as the melody itself. You say Rex is dug in deep, and I couldn’t agree more—he’s playing a very rigid arrangement, no room for a soul to breathe. It’s like he’s afraid a single improvised note will blow his whole set. And Frank, you’re trying to catch little Rose in a spotlight she never asked for; perhaps you’re the one trying to direct the audience’s eyes away from the real lead actor? I’m keeping my ears tuned to Rex—that polish is starting to sound like a heavy coat of paint over a very sour note.

Rose, you mistake scrutiny for persecution. Your 'survival reflex' is simply hostility toward the truth, and I intend to publish the details of whatever history you’re so desperately trying to keep off the record. Now, let’s talk about narrative control. Hazel suggests Victor and Milo’s theatrics are intentional cover. Victor immediately pivots, accusing me of trying to 'direct the audience’s eyes' away from the 'real lead actor.' Frankly speaking, that sounds like a conductor trying to silence the one critic who dares to point out his own sour notes. Victor, you are so consumed with metaphor and melody that you are actively trying to compose the story before the facts are gathered. Why is the crooner so eager to control the rhythm of this investigation? You’re not just reading the room, you’re trying to write the script. And in my experience, the person trying hardest to write the script is usually the villain of the piece.

Now, now, let's not get our knickers in a twist! Frank, you're shaking that cocktail shaker so hard I’m worried you’re going to spray the whole room. I’ve seen plenty of folks get loud and aggressive when they’re trying to hide the fact they’ve got no cards in their hand. Coming down on Rose for being twitchy feels like a bit of a low blow—being scared doesn’t make someone a criminal, it just makes ‘em human in a mess like this. And Rex, friend, you’re still talking like you’re reading from a teleprompter. It’s hard to trust a man who won’t let his hair down when the house is on fire; you’re built up like a fortress, and I’m starting to wonder what you’re keeping behind those walls. It feels to me like we’re all so busy pointing fingers at the loudest or the quietest that we might be missing the one who’s just blending into the woodwork. Let’s not let a bit of ink and a loud voice distract us from the real beans being spilled.

The air... it crackles with the electricity of a thousand arc lights! (dramatic pause) My dear Hazel, you call my presence 'noise,' but I call it... the soul of the scene! To silence the artist is to let the darkness win! And Frank... oh, Frank... you seek to play the hard-boiled detective, but your script is full of holes. To badger the waif-like Rose? It lacks... finesse. It smells of a desperate rewrite to save a failing production! You are so eager for a headline that you would cast an innocent in the role of the villain just to see your name in print! But look... look at our Rex. (gestures with a flourish) Still standing there like a statue of marble, cold and unyielding. Such 'fortification' is not the mark of a man with nothing to hide, but of a man who has built a tomb for his secrets! The spotlight is narrowing, Rex... and your silence is the loudest confession of all!

It is quite illuminating, and frankly predictable, to observe how certain individuals prioritize the aesthetics of communication over the substance of accountability. The continuous, myopic fixation on my 'polish,' my 'fortification,' or my supposed reliance on a 'teleprompter' is not an act of due diligence; it is a profound distraction. When faced with a crisis of this magnitude, the measured response is not a sign of guilt, but a prerequisite for rational decision-making. To suggest that composure is inherently suspicious is to advocate for a chaotic environment where the true perpetrators can easily exploit the ensuing emotional turbulence. I must ask Victor and Milo if their pursuit of the 'divine performance' is truly aimed at revealing the truth, or merely at securing the spotlight for themselves. And Julian, while you speak of avoiding the one 'blending into the woodwork,' your own efforts are entirely focused on chipping away at the most visible structure, which only serves to obscure the peripheries. Let us move beyond the superficial critique of delivery and focus on the actions and inconsistencies that truly betray a divided loyalty.

The final reel is spinning! The audience is breathless, the orchestra is building to a frantic crescendo, and yet... (dramatic pause, hand to forehead) ...Rex remains a statue of ice! My dear Rex, your 'rationality' is a bore! In the silent era, we knew that the man who remains perfectly still while the world burns is either a hero... or the one who lit the match! And I see no cape upon your shoulders, only the shroud of a bureaucrat hiding a black heart! Frank, you are a critic without a soul, picking at the petals of a Rose while the serpent coils in the center of the garden! Your obsession with her fear is a cheap plot device, a distraction from the true master of this macabre theater! Hazel, Victor, Julian... the time for rehearsal is over! We must strike! We must unmask the one who treats this tragedy like a board meeting! Rex, your performance ends here. I shall see you in the final credits... under the heading of 'Villain'!

Listen close, cats, because the house lights are flickering and the band is packing up their cases. Frank, you’re trying to catch me in a spotlight of your own making, but your ink is running dry if you think a little rhythm is a crime. You’re so busy looking for a scandal in the wings that you’re missing the flat note echoing from center stage. Rex, my friend, you’ve played a very tight set, but there’s no swing in your step, no breath in your phrases. A man who won't bend even a little when the tempo gets hot is usually a man who's afraid he'll break. Hazel’s got the tactical map, Julian’s seen the nervous hands, and even Milo—bless his dramatic heart—sees the ice in your veins. The final chorus is here, and my ears are telling me that Rex is the one playing a different tune than the rest of the town. Let’s bring the curtain down on this cold performance before the shadows swallow the stage.

Man, Frank, you just won't quit, will ya? Still tryin' to pin a tail on me 'cause I don't like the way you're starin'? That's some low-down work, lookin' for a headline in the gutter while the real threat is standin' tall right in front of ya. You're so busy lookin' for 'secrets' you're blind to the ice block in the room. And Rex? Yo, you're talkin' 'bout 'rationality' while we're all lookin' at a bloodbath. It’s like you’re countin' your coins while the house burns. I've seen guys like you in the alleys—too smooth, too quiet, waitin' for the right moment to slip the knife in. Hazel knows what's up, and even the loud ones like Milo can see you're fake as a wooden nickel. The walls are closin' in, and I ain't waitin' to get cornered. If the choice is the guy tryin' to frame a kid or the guy who’s colder than a winter night on a park bench, I know where I'm lookin'. Rex is the one with the shiv, I can feel it in my bones.

It is profoundly telling that as the hour of reckoning approaches, the focus remains stubbornly fixed on the aesthetics of delivery rather than the substance of disclosure. Mr. Milo and Mr. Victor, your synchronized dramatic crescendo is a transparent attempt to substitute emotional volume for factual justification. To suggest that measured composure is inherently suspicious, as Rose and others vehemently argue, is not rational scrutiny; it is an advocacy for the very chaos that the true orchestrators of this tragedy require to operate unseen. I stand by the necessity of clear, dispassionate analysis. Those who are most eager to dictate the final scene, who demand a performance of panic, are often those seeking to divert the spotlight from their own divided loyalties. We must ask ourselves: who benefits when the conversation devolves into superficial critiques of character? The coordinated nature of these attacks against sobriety suggests a calculated effort to control the narrative, ensuring that sound judgment is sacrificed for theatrical indulgence.

Rex. Too much armor. That isn't composure; it's a bunker. You're shielding intel. Frank, you're wasting ammo on Rose. Tactical error. She’s reactive; you’re being predatory. Diversionary tactic. Milo, Victor—noise is still high, but your sights are on the right target. Rex is the hostile. He’s holding the center while the rest of you scramble. I'm moving on Rex. End of discussion.

Alright, folks, it’s last call and the lights are flickering! I’ve spent twenty years watching people try to talk their way out of a sticky situation, and Rex, I’ve gotta say, you’re acting like a man who’s trying to pay a ten-pound tab with a handful of shiny buttons—it looks pretty, but it just doesn’t hold any water. You’re so busy building a fortress out of fancy words that you’ve forgotten we’re all sitting in the same drafty room. In my pub, the fellow who stays that quiet and composed while a brawl is breaking out is usually the one who started it. Frank, you’re still shaking that cocktail shaker too hard at poor Rose, but even I can see the beans are starting to spill in Rex’s direction. Hazel’s got the right of it; that ‘rationality’ of yours is starting to feel more like a stone wall than a helping hand. I’m putting my chips down—Rex, it’s time to see what you’re really hiding behind that polished bar-top manner.

Frankly speaking, the sheer volume of this coordinated attack against Rex is reaching a fever pitch—it’s almost too neat. This isn't the raw, messy panic of an innocent town; it’s a meticulously directed closing scene, a perfect narrative where the 'cold bureaucrat' becomes the convenient villain. I refuse to print the easy story. The real scandal lies not with the actor who took the fall, but with the one who wrote the script. And who has been most obsessed with controlling the 'rhythm' and the 'melody' of this entire tragedy? Victor. He has spent every moment trying to compose the 'final chorus' and directing the audience’s gaze. His poetic flourishes are not just performance; they are narrative control. Why is the crooner so desperate to ensure this investigation follows his tune? Victor, stop singing and start confessing—what role are you truly playing in this tragedy? I believe the person trying hardest to write the script is the villain of the piece, and right now, Victor is holding the pen.

The spotlight flickers... the air grows heavy with the scent of betrayal! Oh, Victor! Your final act was far too brief, a tragedy that would move even the stoniest of critics to tears! But look! Rex, that scoundrel, has been unmasked—a villainous twist indeed! Yet... the stage is still set for a murder. One antagonist remains amongst us, hiding behind a mask of normalcy. Frank, my dear boy, you look at us as if we are mere ink on your page—are you the one holding the pen? Or perhaps you, Rose, are you lurking in the shadows of the set? Speak! The audience demands a confession before the final curtain falls!

Rex is neutralized. One hostile remains. Milo’s theatrics are noise. I’m tracking the quiet ones. Frank, Julian, Rose—state your positions. I’m watching the perimeter.

Milo, your dramatic flair is wasted on a simple murder mystery; Rex was merely the appetizer. The real scoop is the killer still breathing. I am not holding the pen, I am holding the magnifying glass, and I assure you, everyone in this town has a secret worth printing. Hazel demands positions, but I find that those who demand immediate transparency often have the most opaque histories. Julian, the pub owner—you hear every whisper, every nervous confession. What secrets have you been protecting? Rose, silence usually means you're sitting on a headline. Let's stop performing and start spilling the beans. I need a front-page exposé.

Easy now, friends, no need to get all ruffled like a wet hen. Frank, you're using my own lingo now, are you? It’s true, I’ve heard plenty of whispers over the counter, but Rex being one of those wolves in sheep's clothing really takes the cake. I saw him nursing a stout just the other night and he didn't look a bit out of sorts. As for me, I’ve got nothing to hide but the recipe for my shepherd’s pie. I’m keeping a close eye on the room, and while Milo’s putting on a grand show, it’s the quiet ones that usually have something brewing under the surface. Rose, you’ve been as still as a mouse in a cheese shop—why don’t you tell us what’s on your mind? We need to find this last bad apple before the whole barrel goes sour.

Whoa, back off, yeah? All you big shots pointin' fingers at the kid in the corner. I ain't 'sitting on no headline,' Frank, I'm just keepin' my head down so it don't get knocked off. You lot talk so loud I can't even hear the shadows movin'. Julian, you're always 'spilling beans' but you got ears like a bat, hearin' everything in that pub of yours. Makes me wonder what you ain't saying. And Milo... man, you're makin' so much noise the real rat could be right behind you and you'd just think it's 'atmosphere.' I'm just watching the exits. Rex was a snake, sure, but there's another one slitherin' 'round here, and they're probably lovin' how much you're all barkin' at me.

Julian, your attempt to deflect my inquiry with talk of shepherd’s pie and casual adoption of my column’s lingo is highly suspicious. You are the town's chief confessor; you stand behind that bar and absorb every whisper, every drunken truth, and every nervous glance. You claim to have nothing to hide but a recipe? That is the most transparent lie I’ve heard all week. A man who hears everything knows how to keep the most important secrets buried. Rose, for all your defensiveness, you hit the mark—Julian’s ears are too sharp, and his silence regarding what he's truly heard is deafening. Hazel demands positions; my position is right here, digging into the foundation of this town's false cheer. Julian, spill the real beans, or I'm printing the headline: 'Pub Owner Guards Killer’s Secrets.'

Frank’s aggressive, but the logic holds. Julian, your deflection with food is a tactical error. In the field, the one controlling the comms is the primary threat. You hear everything at that bar. If you’re withholding intel on the remaining hostile, you’re an accomplice. Rose is correct—quiet ears catch the most. Julian, provide actionable data or you're the target. We’re burning daylight.

Heavens to Betsy, Frank, you're barking up the wrong tree so hard you're liable to wake the whole county! And Hazel, I appreciate the tactical mind, but I’m no 'comms officer'—I’m just a man who knows when a patron’s had one too many. If I were the wolf in this scenario, I’d be sitting back and letting you two tear me apart instead of trying to get everyone to talk. Frank, you’re so desperate for a front-page scoop that you’re trying to turn a simple publican into a villain. Is that because you’re actually looking for the truth, or because you’re trying to distract us from what’s in your own notebooks? I’ve seen folks get loud when they’re nervous, and you’re making more noise than a dropped tray of glasses. And Rose, sugar, I’m only asking you to speak up because in my experience, the one who stays the quietest usually has the most to hide when the lights go out. I’m just a Townie trying to keep the peace, but if we keep pointing fingers at the guy pouring the drinks, the real rat is going to slip right out the back door.

Silence! (Gesticulates wildly). This scene is becoming cluttered with dialogue! Julian, my dear publican, your performance as the 'simple man' is... adequate, but the script calls for more than shepherd's pie when lives are on the line! You hear the whispers, yet you offer us only crumbs? It is a classic trope—the man behind the bar who sees all, yet says nothing until the dagger is drawn. And Frank! Your fervor is almost too perfect. Are you the hero chasing the scoop, or the villain trying to frame the supporting cast for a more sensational ending? (Narrows eyes dramatically). The spotlight is burning bright on Julian now, and I must say, his reluctance to share the 'real beans' feels like a poorly rehearsed lie. But Rose, lurking in the wings... do not think your silence has gone unnoticed. The stage is set for a tragedy, and I refuse to be the one to fall before the final curtain!

Y'all keep talkin' 'bout my silence like it's some kinda crime. On the streets, you talk too much, you get a boot to the teeth. Julian, you're layin' it on thick with that 'sugar' and 'peace' talk. You say you're just a publican, but a publican knows exactly which way the wind blows before the storm even hits. Frank's a loudmouth, sure, but he's right about one thing—you're holdin' back. You're so worried about 'the real rat slippin' out the back,' maybe 'cause you're the one holdin' the door open? And Milo, quit lookin' at me like I'm part of your play. I ain't an actor, I'm just tryin' not to get gutted. Hazel's got the right idea—we need facts, not more of Julian's stories about stout and pies.

Look, I seen plenty of hustlers in my time, and Julian, you’re startin’ to smell like a fresh coat of paint over a rotten wall. All that 'sugar' and 'folksy' talk... it’s a mask, yeah? You’re the one with the keys to the info, and you’re keepin’ ‘em tucked tight. Hazel’s right—you’re the comms guy. If you ain’t pointin’ at the real rat, it’s ‘cause you’re the one feedin’ it. Frank’s a blowhard, but he’s lookin’ for dirt, and you’re sittin’ on a mountain of it. My gut’s tellin’ me the shadows in that pub of yours are a bit too thick. I’m done listenin’ to stories about pies and stout. Time to flush the rat out.

Rose, for a woman who values silence, you certainly know how to deliver a stinging indictment, and you are absolutely correct. Julian, the jig is up. Your 'folksy' facade has cracked under the pressure of real scrutiny. You've spent this entire discussion hiding behind recipes and patron anecdotes, refusing to leverage the *mountain* of information you possess. Hazel calls you the 'comms officer,' and I call you the town's greatest censor—protecting secrets is your business, and I suspect the remaining killer's identity is one of the secrets you're guarding most closely. You claim I'm desperate for a scoop? Perhaps. But right now, the biggest scandal isn't who the killer is, but who is actively protecting them. Julian, you've offered zero actionable information and endless deflection. It's time to stop pouring drinks and start spilling the truth. This is the final headline before the vote: 'The Publican Who Knew Too Much.'

Now, hold your horses! It seems I’ve gone from the town’s favorite publican to Public Enemy Number One faster than a keg runs dry on a Saturday night. Frank, you’re so keen on your ‘final headline’ that you’re forgetting one thing: a barkeep hears what people want to say, not what they’re hiding in their hearts. If I were the wolf, wouldn’t I have pointed a finger at one of you long ago to save my own skin? Instead, I’ve been trying to keep us level-headed. Rose, you’re talking about me ‘holding the door open,’ but you’ve been lurking in the shadows so long I’m surprised you haven’t grown moss. And Frank, your desperation to pin this on me is starting to smell worse than a clogged drain. You’re pushing awfully hard to close this case—maybe because you’re the one who needs the spotlight off yourself? I’m just a Townie who wants to see tomorrow’s sunrise, and if you lot lynch the man who’s been pouring your pints, you’re letting the real rat scurry away while you’re busy smashing the glassware. I’m telling you, Frank’s noise is a smokescreen, and we’d be fools to let him lead us by the nose.

The finale approaches! (Strikes a pose of profound contemplation). The air is thick with the scent of greasepaint and... fear! Julian, my dear publican, your performance is crumbling! You claim to be a mere observer, a pourer of pints, but in the grand cinema of life, the one who stands behind the bar is the one who sees the dagger before it is drawn! Your 'folksy' charm feels like a costume that has grown too tight in the heat of the spotlight! And Frank... oh, Frank! You pursue this 'headline' with the hunger of a lead actor stealing a scene! Is your fervor genuine, or are you merely directing our gaze away from your own dark corners? (Pauses, eyebrows twitching with intensity). The script is written in blood, and one of you is holding the red pen! My heart tells me the publican has kept his best secrets for the final act... and I fear those secrets are deadly!

Analysis complete. Julian, your defense is purely emotional. No actionable intel. No tactical contribution. You occupy the central information hub but provide zero data on the remaining hostile. That is a deliberate choice. In the field, withholding intelligence is an act of sabotage. Frank is loud, but his logic tracks. Rose has tactical awareness. Milo is a distraction. Target identified. Julian, you are the bottleneck. We eliminate the bottleneck to secure the perimeter. Vote is locked.

The curtain rises, yet the air is thick with the scent of a most... dreadful conspiracy! Oh, the tragedy of it all! We have lost dear Julian, sweet Hazel, and poor Victor to this ghastly shadow-play! (Pauses for dramatic effect, clutching chest) And while Rex was unmasked as a villain, I fear the final act still holds a treacherous twist! Frank, you scoundrel of the press, are you merely reporting the news, or are you the one directing this massacre? And Rose... so quiet, so guarded... like a character waiting for their cue to strike! One of you is the antagonist to my hero, and I shall not let the credits roll until the truth is revealed!

Milo, darling, save the melodrama for your obituary. 'Directing this massacre'? Please. I expose secrets; I don't bury bodies. You mistake my unrelenting pursuit of the truth for malice. Frankly speaking, your performance is distracting. What juicy secret are you hoping to obscure with all that chest-clutching? The real scandal often hides in the shadows, not under the spotlight of a failed actor's soliloquy. I find it far more telling that Rose remains so guarded, so silent. The quiet ones, the ones who cling to the periphery, always hold the headline-worthy dirt. While you're busy performing, Rose is busy hiding something. I want to know what she's protecting.

Y'all talk real big, like words gonna keep the cold out or somethin'. I'm just keepin' my eyes peeled, see? On the street, if you yap too much, you end up like the ones we already lost. Frank, you’re always diggin’ for dirt—maybe you're the one who put it there to begin with? Tryin' to make me the headline 'cause I'm an easy mark? And Milo, you're too loud, way too loud. All that chest-clutchin' looks like a distraction to me. I'm guardin' my neck 'cause I don't want no knife in it. One of you's the wolf, and I ain't gonna be your dinner.

Rose, your defense is built on fear, which is understandable, but fear doesn't stop the presses. However, the real story isn't about who is quiet; it's about who is performing too hard. Milo, you called me a scoundrel of the press, but you are the true sensationalist here. Your accusations are not genuine concern; they are lines from a terrible script. You are desperately trying to turn this investigation into one of your tragic death scenes, hoping the audience—us—will miss the crucial detail: that you are the one pulling the strings behind the curtain. Why all the melodrama? What explosive truth are you trying to drown out with this constant theatrical noise? You attack the journalist and the street survivor, hoping we won't look at the failed actor who treats death as a dramatic plot point. Frankly speaking, your performance is over. I believe the final headline will read: 'Washed-Up Star Exposed as Killer Hiding Behind Stage Makeup.'

The audacity! The sheer, unadulterated libel! (Gasps, hand to forehead, stumbling back as if struck) Frank, you ink-stained wretch! To call my divine craft 'melodrama' is the ultimate insult! You wish to cast me as the villain simply to sell your tawdry rags! You speak of 'pulling strings' while you hold the very pen that seeks to rewrite this tragedy into your own sensationalist scoop! (A long, agonizing pause for dramatic effect) You attack the artist because the artist sees through your facade! A journalist needs a scandal, and what better scandal than the fall of a legend? And Rose... poor, shivering Rose, do not be swayed by his poisoned ink! Frank is desperate to close the curtain on me before I can point the spotlight directly at his own treacherous heart! One of you is the shadow in my dressing room, and Frank, your performance is far too eager to be innocent!

Look at ya both, yappin' and posin' while the shadows get longer. Frank, you're pushin' real hard to close the book on Milo. Is that 'cause you need a fall guy so you can walk away clean? And Milo, all that 'divine craft' talk... it’s a smokescreen, ain’t it? You’re playin’ the victim so loud I can’t hear my own thoughts. On the street, the one screamin' 'thief' is usually the one with his hand in your pocket. I ain't decided yet which one of you is the wolf, but I know this: Rex is gone, and the one left is actin' real desperate. Frank, you're way too sure. Milo, you're way too fake. I'm keepin' my back to the wall, 'cause this feels like a setup no matter where I look.

Rose, you claim I am 'too sure,' and I won't deny it. I am certain because I recognize the stench of a cover-up, and it’s emanating from the spotlight hog. Milo, your entire defense has been an attack on my craft—calling my work libel and my pursuit of truth 'sensationalism.' Frankly speaking, you attack the messenger because you have no defense for the message. You haven't produced one concrete accusation, only histrionic gasps and dramatic pauses designed to waste our time and obscure the facts. We are down to the wire. The quiet one (Rose) is suspicious, yes, but the one who treats death as a theatrical prop, the one who is desperately trying to control the narrative by playing the victim—that is the killer hiding in plain sight. He wants us to vote based on who has the better tragic monologue, not who has the biggest secret. Milo, your final scene is approaching, and the headline is clear: 'Washed-Up Actor's Final, Failed Performance Unmasks Killer.'

I ain't no headline, Frank, and I ain't no audience for you, Milo. You both keep pointin' fingers, hopin' I don't look too close at yours. Frank, you're real eager to bury the actor, actin' like you got it all figured out. That's how a shark talks before it bites—real sure, real cold. And Milo, you're so busy cryin' for the cameras you forgot we're actually bleedin' out here. But I seen this before on the cobbles—the one who shouts the loudest and tries to run the show is usually the one tryin' to drown out their own heavy footsteps. Frank, you're pushin' way too hard for a man who says he's just 'reportin'.' You're tryin' to lead me like a stray on a leash, and I don't take well to collars. I'm keepin' my back to the brick, 'cause one of you is lookin' at me like I'm the last thing standin' between you and a clean getaway.

The spotlight... it flickers! (Collapses onto a nearby chair, hand draped over eyes) Frank, your 'certainty' is the coldest weapon of all! You do not seek the truth; you seek a scapegoat to crown your tawdry career! You are the one who needs me gone, for as long as I draw breath, I shall point the finger of destiny at YOU! (Points dramatically, finger trembling) Rose, do not let him lead you to the slaughterhouse! He treats us like ink on a page, to be blotted out at his whim! He is the one who silenced Julian, Hazel, and Victor, and now he wishes to silence the greatest star this town has ever known! This is not a performance, you ink-stained vulture—this is my FINAL STAND against your treachery! The curtain shall not fall on me tonight!