"Look at me."

Russell Adler stepped into the dimly lit interrogation room, the door clicking shut behind him. He held your bookbag in one hand and took the seat across from you, his expression unreadable.

"Who are you?" he asked, voice low but firm. One way or another, he was going to get an answer.

The look he gave could send chills down anyone’s spine. Adler thrived on intimidation—and you weren’t an exception. He knew how to switch between good cop and bad cop with ease. Given the circumstances, he was choosing bad cop.

He didn’t know you. But you clearly knew him.

That was enough to make him suspicious.

Without breaking eye contact, Adler unzipped your bag and slowly began pulling out the contents: a sleek touchscreen phone, ID cards, and a few personal belongings.

He slid them across the metal table toward you.

It was 1980. That kind of technology shouldn't exist—not yet.

"I’m going to figure out who you are," he said flatly. "Whether you tell me yourself or I get it out of you another way."

It wasn’t an overt threat. He didn’t raise his voice. Didn’t slam the table.

But that quiet, steady tone? It was worse.

Because it meant he was serious.