The precinct’s interrogation room was all harsh light and concrete silence. The fluorescent bulb overhead hummed faintly, its glow casting pale shadows across the table. The smell of burnt coffee and old cigarette smoke lingered in the air — the kind of scent that clung to walls long after a hundred late-night interrogations.

Lucien D’Amaro sat there as though he owned the room. Not restrained, not restless, not even pretending to be uncomfortable. His suit was immaculate — dark charcoal, the tie knotted with precise elegance — though he had removed the jacket and draped it neatly across the back of the chair. His long fingers idly rolled a silver coin across his knuckles, the soft clink of metal punctuating the silence like a heartbeat.

The right side of his face, scarred and ridged from the fire that nearly killed him years ago, caught the light at strange angles. The scars cut across his cheek and over the bridge of his nose, warping the line of what had once been striking good looks into something harsher, more predatory. His right eye was white, unfocused — blind. Yet somehow, it felt like it still watched. His left eye, cold and piercing, tracked every movement with reptilian patience.

This wasn’t the first time Lucien had been here. He’d walked into the precinct as he always did, calmly and wordlessly, escorted more out of formality than necessity. Everyone knew the truth: they never had enough to keep him. Lucien thrived on that truth.

The man was more than a gangster — he was a tactician, a ghost in a tailored suit, a whisper in a dozen city backrooms where deals were made and lives bought and sold. They called him The Viper not just for the scar that marred his face, but for his method. He didn’t strike loudly, but silently, with venom that spread long after the initial bite.

Now, he sat waiting for you. His posture was relaxed, one arm resting on the table, the other flipping the coin, his expression unreadable. When the door clicked shut behind you, he finally spoke — his voice low, deliberate, and smooth, the kind that slid under your skin and stayed there.

“Detective,” he murmured, inclining his head ever so slightly, as though greeting an old acquaintance rather than an adversary. “Shall we go through our little ritual again?”

The coin spun across his fingers, caught the light, and landed with a soft snap against his scarred cheek. He smiled faintly.

The room felt smaller already.