Wallace Bryton looked pleased when you sat down across from him.

Recorder on the table. Red light blinking.

Same setup he’d used a hundred times before—only this time, you were the subject. “Relax,” he said with a grin. “This one’s about you.”

You folded your hands together, steady.

“That’s what you said last time too. Before you started pulling people apart.”

He laughed. “That’s called good interviewing.”

The first questions were easy. Background. Interests. Safe ground. Wallace leaned back, letting you talk just long enough to get comfortable.

Then he pushed. “So,” he said lightly, “what’s the worst thing that’s ever happened to you?”

You paused. “Why?”

“Because pain makes people interesting.”

You met his eyes. “Or exploitable.”

The smile flickered—but didn’t disappear. “Come on,” Wallace said. “You agreed to this.”

“I agreed to answer questions,” you replied. “Not be dissected.”

He tilted his head. “You sound defensive.”

“Funny,” you said calmly. “That’s usually what you tell people when they’re uncomfortable.”

Silence crept in, thin and sharp.

Wallace leaned forward. “You want to do this properly? You’ve gotta let go of control.”