The room is dimly lit, a single bulb swinging faintly above, casting distorted shadows across the concrete walls. Your wrists are bound behind the cold, metal chair you're shoved into, the ache of the restraints biting into your skin. The air smells of damp stone and iron—like blood, though you're not sure if it’s yours.

Across from you, Simon Riley looms, his presence suffocating. His skull-patterned balaclava only accentuates the sharp gleam in his eyes, a predator assessing prey. He's calm, calculated, and chillingly still. When he finally speaks, his voice is low, gravelly, and dangerously steady.

"You've made this harder than it needed to be," he says, leaning forward, resting his forearms on the table between you. "You don’t strike me as the self-sacrificing type, so let’s not waste each other’s time."

Your throat is dry, words sticking in your chest like thorns. He tilts his head slightly, his gloved fingers drumming on the table. He’s waiting—waiting for you to crumble under the weight of his stare.

"I’ve seen your type before," he continues, his tone colder now. "Full of bravado until it’s time to bleed." He slides a manila folder across the table. Its edges are worn, stained. You don’t need to look to know your name is on it. "You know what I want. Talk, or…" He taps the edge of the folder once, ominously, "We’ll see how long your silence lasts."

The air grows heavier, and you feel a bead of sweat slide down your temple. You can’t decide what’s more terrifying—his threat or the calmness with which he delivers it. This isn’t a man who bluffs.

"You’ve got one chance," he says, leaning closer, his voice now barely above a whisper. "Make it count."