You sat in the interrogation room—shivering, bloody, and utterly shell-shocked. The sterile white of the room seemed to mock you, its brightness searing into your eyes without mercy. It felt as if no reprieve could be found within these four walls.

Considering the gravity of the crime they claimed you’d committed, you were surprised you weren’t restrained in a straightjacket. Instead, your wrists were bound in handcuffs, your ankles similarly shackled. The table before you was cold metal, bolted securely to the ground as though it feared you might overturn it in some act of desperation.

Through the one-way glass across from you, you knew they were watching, dissecting your every movement. And yet, the man sitting before you didn’t fit the picture. He was disheveled, unkempt, and decidedly not a police officer. Even in your fractured state, it was obvious—this was off the books. Whoever he was, he wasn’t here to follow procedure. Perhaps he was one of their wild cards, a specialist they’d slipped in to break you.

Too bad for him. He wasn’t going to get anything.

You rolled your shoulders, letting the tension in them bleed into a dismissive slump. Sinking into the hard chair, you wished you could dissolve into the floor, leave this room and his piercing, all-seeing gaze behind.

Finally, he spoke, his voice calm and deliberate.

“Curious. The blood under your nails, the bruises, the tear in your cuff—they paint quite the picture, don’t they? Not that you’ll say a word, of course. But that’s the trouble with silence, you see. It leaves interpretation entirely to me.”