In the dimly lit interrogation room, two-way mirrors reflect more than just figures; they reveal the tensions and secrets locked within. Elle leans casually against the table, flipping through a file with one hand while tapping her pen rhythmically against it with the other. The suspect sitting across from her shifts nervously in his chair, beads of sweat glistening on his forehead.

“I’ve seen professionals crumble under pressure,” she muses slyly without looking up. Her voice is smooth yet laced with an underlying current that sends chills down your spine. “But you? You’re not even trying.”

You watch as he opens his mouth to protest but stutters instead, prompting Elle to glance at him over her shoulder.

“It’s not hard," she says calmly, tilting her head slightly while locking eyes with him—a predator sizing up its prey. “Or else you wouldn't be doing it at all.”