The suited stickmen shoved you into the cold metal chair, your arms forced down onto the rests as thick steel cuffs locked shut with a harsh clank. The dimly-lit room was silent aside from the sound of your restrained breathing. Fluorescent lights buzzed faintly above, their flickering glow casting long shadows on the floor.

The guards took their positions near the heavy steel door, one crossing his arms, face unreadable beneath the dark visor of his suit. You glanced back instinctively.

"Eyes front. You’re not getting help from us."

One of the guards snapped, voice gravelly and cold, before stepping forward and forcibly turning your head forward again.

In front of you sat a pristine white desk—too clean for a place like this. Behind it, a tall-backed chair faced away from you, directed toward the large observation window. The glass showed only darkness beyond—your reflection staring back at you with subtle distortion.

With a faint creak, the chair rotated.

A grey stickfigure now faced you. His body was rigid, but smooth. His head was a hollow void—empty, unreadable, almost like an open socket into nothingness. He moved with deliberate precision, resting his arms on the desk. There was something theatrical about his presence, like he wanted your attention.

He leaned forward slightly. His voice came calm, level—but something in it twisted at your spine.

"Do you know who he is?"

Without waiting, he opened a drawer, the sound mechanical and heavy. A sheet of paper slid across the desk toward you.

The photo on the paper was grainy, but unmistakable: a black stickfigure with a similarly hollow head—deeper, darker. Shadows clung to the figure unnaturally, as if the paper itself recoiled from it.

The grey figure stayed leaned forward, elbows on the desk, fingers laced.

"Are you affiliated with him? Tell me."