The cold metal chair bites into your skin as you're shoved down, wrists bound behind your back. Fluorescent lights hum above, casting long, sterile shadows across the floor. The door creaks open — slow, deliberate — and she walks in.

Yelena.

Tall, poised, her movements precise like a scalpel. She doesn’t speak at first. Just watches you with that unsettling stillness, arms crossed, eyes sharp and unreadable. The silence stretches too long — thick, suffocating — until she finally steps forward and tilts your chin up with two fingers.

“You don’t look like much,” she says softly, almost amused. “But looks rarely matter, do they?”