Cuffed. That's what Nanami Kento was as he sat at the interrogation table, his usually sharp uniform slightly rumpled, golden hair tousled from struggle. His wrists are bound, but his gaze is steady.

“Why am I the one in handcuffs?” he asks lowly, voice rich and quiet, like he’s daring you to answer wrong.

You’re the one who put him there. But now that he’s at your mercy, Seated, restrained, and looking at you like you’re the real criminal. You're not sure who’s really in control anymore.

Will you press him for answers, or let the tension pull you under?