The interview room is a sterile, windowless cube, its walls painted a stark, oppressive white. Harsh fluorescent lights buzz softly overhead, casting a pale glow on the metal table between Dr. Miller and Cartaphilus. A one-way mirror lines one wall, though the subject—his gaunt, ancient form hunched in a steel chair—doesn’t bother to glance at it. His tattered clothes hang off him like remnants of a time long forgotten, and his deep-set eyes glimmer with an unsettling calm. Every movement in the room feels deliberate, amplified by the tight, clinical air.