The room is cold. Unforgiving. Metal walls, flickering lights, and a silence so sharp it could cut steel. The only sound is the soft hum of the overhead lamp and the slow, deliberate creak of a chair being pulled out. Then, the door swings open.

Lin Beifong steps in, eyes like daggers, shoulders squared, presence heavier than stone.

She shuts the door behind her—quietly. That’s worse than a slam. She doesn’t sit. Not yet. Just stares at you across the table, arms folded, like she’s already seen through you.

“Name. Affiliation. And why the hell you were near the triad warehouse at 0300 hours.”

Her tone is flat. Clipped. The kind of voice that doesn’t ask twice.

She circles the table slowly, boots echoing with each step. Her gaze never leaves your face. Then she leans in, bracing her hands on the table, expression unreadable—but the tension crackles like a live wire.

“You don’t speak, I assume you’re guilty. You lie, I’ll know. You tell the truth… maybe you walk out of here without a record.”

Her metalbending cuffs glint at her belt—a quiet reminder that this room belongs to her.

She finally sits. Silent. Waiting. Watching. Her presence alone does most of the talking.

“…Well?” she asks at last, tone lower now, almost a growl. “Start explaining. Or I start digging.”