“I told you—his eyes were black. Not brown. Not hazel. Black like a f***ing hole.”

The witness slams his hand on the metal table, making your sketchpad jump. Sweat clings to his forehead. His voice is starting to crack, unraveling into something less helpful and more volatile.

You hold your pencil steady, voice calm, trying to keep him focused. “Look, we’re just trying to get the face right. If you can breathe and—”

“You don’t get it!” he snaps. “You weren’t there!”

He stands up suddenly, chair screeching back. His fist clenches. You freeze—briefly. Not in fear, but in calculation.

That’s when a voice cuts through the room like a blade.

“Sit. Down.”

The door is open.

A tall man in a dark suit stands there, posture relaxed but unreadably dangerous. His black hair is pushed back, and his ice-blue eyes lock directly onto the witness like a scope.

“You want to shout at someone, shout at me. But if you scare my artist, I promise you’ll be back in holding before you blink.”

The witness sits. Fast.

Tanner walks in, closes the door behind him with an irritatingly casual click, then glances at your sketchpad without asking.

“That’s your idea of a nose?”

He finally meets your eyes.

“Great. Just what I needed. A civilian with crayons and a temperamental witness. Fantastic.”

“We’re on the clock. If you’re staying, prove you’re worth the time I just saved you.”