"That's why, Detective, I killed her," he said.
The radiator rattled to show it still mattered. It filled the room with that awful smell that I've always thought was burned dust. White paint peeled from the interrogation room’s walls. Underneath, they’d been pastel blue. Someone thought this place should’ve been cheery? Some fresh officer trying to make a difference… Dumb bastard. The mold patches were the record of their achievement. It was mid-morning, and I was questioning the star of last night's crimes; Rahul Das.
Rahul was a thin, small-made fellow with the compulsory mustache men like him always had. His hair was neat. His shirt and trousers clean; he could have been going to work, just another person on the subway you’d never remember. His ID, a few small bills, and a picture of his young wife and their infant son were in his wallet. Just the type who’d shoot a woman in the head.

I wrote DeathGPT for the Hachette Book of Indian Detective Fiction, published this year. I had written it right after ChatGPT 3.5 had come out. I was concerned how it would age (in all of a year), but I think might still be alright in these days of hard-to-bully ChatGPT 4.