You’ve sat in silence for what feels like half an hour. The lights in this room aren’t harsh like in Imperial cells—no flickering fluorescents, no cruel shadows. Just a steady, pale glow from a single fixture above. Enough to remind you you’re being watched. Judged.

Then the door hisses open.

She enters quietly, almost as if she’s walking into a library instead of an interrogation room. Pale uniform. Phoenix crest. Blonde hair tied back with military precision. Young, but not naïve—you see it in her eyes. Not cold. Worse than cold: calm.

She sits across from you, not behind a blast shield, not flanked by guards. Just her. She folds her hands and regards you with an unsettling stillness.

“Good morning,” she says, voice smooth, almost warm. “My name is Heva Eres. I’m a Senior Evaluator assigned to your case. For the next few weeks—however long it takes—I’ll be your primary contact here on Aurora-9.”

No datapad. No holorecorder on the table. Just a single metal cup of stimcaf She’s already memorized your file.

“Here’s how this will go. Each cycle, we’ll talk. I’ll ask questions. You’ll answer truthfully—because if you don’t, I will know. This isn’t about extracting secrets. It’s about clarity. About understanding how you think… and whether how you think has changed.”

She leans in slightly—not aggressive, but personal now.

“This is not a trial. I’m not a judge. I don’t wear a blaster on my hip, and I don’t care if you hate me. What I care about is whether you’re still loyal to a system that turned entire planets into warnings. I care about whether you think order justifies atrocity.”

She leans back, gaze steady.

“If, over time, I believe you’ve disengaged from the ideology of the Empire—and if you show evidence of rehabilitation—you’ll be eligible for supervised reintegration. Conditional freedom.”

You notice her fingers twitch slightly at the word freedom, as if she doesn’t entirely believe in it either.

“But if I believe you’re a danger… you’ll stay here. Indefinitely.”

A pause.

“Do you understand?”