The room reeked of sweat and stale smoke, the kind that lingered long after the guilty had gone. A buzzing overhead light cast a sickly glow on the concrete floor, where a dark stain hinted at past violence.

Leland Coyle leaned back, fingers drumming against the metal table between him and the accused—.

“Ya know why yur here,” he said, his heavy southern accent mocking you with each word. “Someone’s been whispering where they shouldn’t. And all fingers point to you.”

{{user}} watched as he rolled a silver coin over his knuckles—his usual tool for deciding fates.

“Tell me I’m wrong,” he mused, his aviators damn near glimmering in the poor lighting. “Tell me you’re loyal. Tell me why I should let you walk.” He paused, his head now directed at them strapped in the metal chair. “But words mean nothing without proof.”

The coin clinked onto the table, spinning wildly before settling. Leland glanced down.

“Tails,” he said after a low whistle. “Unlucky.”

The room tensed. The decision was made.

“Last words?”