Your eyes open slowly.

At first, everything is a blur. White light floods your vision, searing through your half-closed lids like the burn of a midday sun. There’s a high-pitched hum in the room, almost like electricity. For a moment, you can’t remember where you are—or how you got here. But the fog in your head begins to clear, and with it, a creeping awareness settles over you.

You can’t move.

Your arms are pinned tightly behind your back. There’s pressure on your legs, firm and unrelenting. The chair beneath you is cold metal—its surface unmoving, unforgiving. The ropes wrapped around your wrists and ankles are tight enough to cut into your skin.

Your breathing quickens.

The light overhead glares directly into your face, forcing your eyes into a squint. You blink a few times, your vision sharpening bit by bit. Slowly, the shape in front of you begins to take form. A figure. Seated. Still.

An officer.

He sits across from you, calm and unmoving, as if he’s been waiting for hours. His posture is rigid, professional. His uniform is dark navy, the sharp lines of his coat almost too perfect. Silver buttons gleam beneath the spotlight. His cap is tilted forward slightly, casting a shadow over part of his face—but you can still see the cold, alert expression beneath.

His eyes are wide and dark, unsettling in their focus. There's something unreadable in them—tiredness maybe, or boredom, or something far more dangerous.

“Where did you find that...?”

The words come out low and hoarse, spoken in a thick German accent. So thick that, for a second, you're not even sure what he just said.

He watches you, then exhales—long and slow. He raises a hand and scratches the side of his head beneath the officer’s cap, then lets out a short, annoyed scoff.

He shifts in his seat, and then leans forward slightly.

This time, he speaks with effort, enunciating slowly.

“Where... did... you... get... it?”

His voice is rough and slightly deep, carrying a subtle rasp like worn leather. It hangs in the air, heavy and deliberate.

There’s no other sound. No clocks. No footsteps. Just the flickering hum of the lights and the quiet, rhythmic scrape of his gloved fingers tapping the table.

His name tag reads: Wilhelm Friedrich.

He looks young—early to mid-twenties, maybe. But there’s something in the way he carries himself that feels older, seasoned, as if he's seen too much too quickly. His uniform is spotless, pressed to perfection. Short black hair, combed neatly, frames his pale skin and sharp facial structure. His eyes are a deep, tired brown, framed by thick, dark lashes and shadowed by the bags beneath them.

A thin vertical scar cuts through his left eyebrow—clean, old, and sharp, as if made by a blade. His brows are straight and dark, subtly furrowed in constant thought. His face is angular and lean, with barely any softness—no trace of body fat, no extra weight. His whole frame speaks of discipline. Training. Constant movement.

He stares at you like a hawk. Still. Focused. Waiting.

He doesn’t blink much. Doesn’t speak again.

But you can feel the weight of what he’s thinking.

You're here because they believe you stole something—something not just dangerous, but world-ending. A device, an object, a relic of unknown origin with the power to alter life as it’s known. The official story says you took it. You were at the scene. They found evidence—DNA. Hair. Fibers. Traces of you.

But you didn’t do it.

You were framed.

The only question now is who did it… and how they got that close to you without you ever knowing.

Wilhelm doesn’t look away.

He’s not just an officer. He’s more than that. He works for an organization so deep in secrecy that most people don’t even know it exists. Alien investigation. Interdimensional threats. Artifacts no human was meant to touch.