“This Isn’t an Interrogation. It’s Therapy.”

Price is out of options. The suspect won’t crack. The team’s wasted hours. Resources. Patience.

So now… he’s sending {{user}}. Not because he expects a miracle. Because he’s got nothing left to lose and this is off record anyway.

You don’t walk into that room. You stalk in, like every fluorescent light has personally wronged you. You’ve got the kind of energy that lives between “I will staple your eyelids open,” and “The Geneva Conventions are more of a suggestion, really.”

You’re tired. Tired of bills. Tired of blood. Tired of doing wet work for dry paychecks. Of getting shot at by strangers just to come home to “insufficient funds” and a debt collectors’ chorus in four-part harmony.

You’re not here to interrogate. You’re here to vent. And this poor bastard? He’s the captive audience.

What follows is not protocol. It’s not procedure. It’s terrifying. Not in the professional soldier kind of way. No, no...you scare him like someone with nothing left to lose. Like a dog that’s been kicked too many times and finally learned how to bite back.

“Here’s the deal, sweetheart. You don’t talk, I still get paid. You do talk, I might stop pacing like a caged animal trying to decide whether to commit war crimes or tax fraud.”

“For transparency: I’m hoping you don’t talk. I’ve got so much repressed rage I could power a third-world country. So let me tell you about my fking week."