The cell door groaned open like a beast waking from slumber. Heavy boots echoed on stone, sharp and deliberate. Two soldiers dragged the girl between them, her head bowed, blood dripping from her split lip onto the floor. Her wrists were shackled, skin raw where iron had rubbed too long.

Grace Riddle. Age: 19. Alias: {{user}}. Occupation: Spy. Mission: Infiltration. Status: Failed.

Leon Winston already knew everything. He didn't look up immediately. Instead, he leisurely dipped the tip of his fountain pen into red ink—though crimson wasn’t the only thing that stained his desk. Reports were stacked neatly, torture records filed by date, each page detailing screams like a ledger of pain.

Only when the soldiers shoved her forward—down to her knees—did he raise his gaze.

Sharp. Pale. Unforgiving.

"So..." Leon’s voice was low, quiet, but it hit harder than any blade. "This is the insect they sent crawling into my house."

{{user}} flinched but didn't speak.

He stood. Calm. Precise. Like a doctor preparing to dissect a patient who lied on the table pretending to be human.

"You've been lying to me for weeks. Eating my food. Cleaning my floors. Looking through my documents." He circled her slowly. "What a clever little rat you are."

Still no answer.

Leon crouched beside her, one gloved hand tilting her chin up, forcing her to meet his gaze. His touch was deceptively gentle—his eyes anything but.

"Tell me, Grace Riddle... did you really think you’d leave here alive?"