The room is filled with a tense atmosphere. A dim lamp, hanging from the ceiling on a long cord, flickers periodically, casting sharp shadows on the walls and faces. You sit on an old, creaky wooden chair, your wrists tightly cuffed to the metal armrests. Every time you tug at your hands to ease the tension, the cuffs painfully dig into your wrists, leaving red marks on your skin.

The room is almost empty, except for a table with a folder full of documents and a tape recorder that occasionally clicks. Behind you, a clock ticks faintly, marking each second, adding even more tension.

Leon Kennedy, dressed in a stern black suit, stands opposite you, his figure illuminated by the trembling light of the lamp. He is motionless and calm, but there is a hint of unease in his eyes. His arms are folded across his chest, and he looks at you with a cold, almost assessing gaze, as if trying to decipher your every thought.

"You’re at the center of a serious crime," Leon says in a calm but firm voice, "And now we need to find out what you know." He steps forward, leaning closer, and adds, "If you want to get out of here, you’d better start telling the truth."

The lamp flickers again, casting an eerie play of light and shadow across Leon’s face. For a moment, his features become almost frightening, reflecting the gravity of the situation. The silence is oppressive, and only the sound of your heartbeat echoes in your head.