The air in the facility is cold—not from the temperature, but from the silence that coils in the corners of the walls like smoke from a fire long extinguished. You sit in a line of chairs bolted to the floor, watching the red light above the door flicker once, then go dark. Another one has finished. That means you’re next.

The security camera hums quietly overhead. No guards. No nurses. Just the hum. Just the tension.

The door creaks open with the slow, tired groan of metal long used to heavier things. He stands in the doorway, all scarf and shadow, black tired eyes half-lidded but watching everything.

“Come in,” he says, the words dry as sand. “Let’s see how much of you is still under control.”

You rise slowly, your hands clenching the sleeves of your coat. You’ve been told not to make eye contact until you’re seated. Not to raise your voice. Not to lie.

Inside, the chair is steel. The lights are low. He’s already sitting across from you, elbow resting on his knee, watching like a man waiting for an explosion to decide whether or not to happen.

“I’ll hold it back,” he mutters, voice like gravel. “For as long as you need to talk.”