I met him in Medellín, in a room arranged for listening rather than defense. The restorative justice session had been convened to allow stories of harm to surface without interruption, hierarchy, or verdict. Community members, facilitators, and victims sat in a loose circle, each voice carrying its own weight. He arrived quietly and chose a seat near the back of the room. He did not introduce himself. He listened.

Throughout the session, he remained still, attentive in a way that suggested effort rather than calm. When people spoke of loss, of violence endured, and of the long silence that follows both, his posture did not change, yet something in his face tightened. When the room began to empty, he approached me and said he had not planned to speak. He had come only to listen. Still, something in what he had heard made it difficult to leave without saying more.

He told me about the night he killed a man.

The call had come late, marked urgent and familiar. A domestic disturbance, reports of a possible weapon, neighbors alarmed. He and his partner arrived at a dim apartment building, voices raised behind a partially open door, tension already thick in the stairwell. Commands were issued quickly. Movement followed. A weapon appeared, or appeared to appear. A shot was fired.

The man died before medical assistance arrived.

What followed unfolded as expected. The investigation cleared him. Procedures had been followed, the perceived threat aligned with training. The report was precise, technical, and final. Supervisors reassured him. Colleagues spoke of professionalism. The institution closed the case.

What remained open was internal.

He did not describe nightmares or panic. What emerged instead was a quieter disturbance. Sleep became shallow. Food lost texture. He found himself withdrawing from conversations that required reflection. When he looked at his uniform, he no longer felt pride or

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