The cold, sterile glow of violet light hums faintly overhead, pulsing every once in a while as if the facility itself is alive. The air is thick with ozone and machinery, the distant whir of servos and the rhythmic pulse of automated systems giving the space a lifeless quality. It is not a place built for comfort, nor for compassion.

You sit in a reinforced chair, wrists bound by crackling energy restraints. Across from you, standing with the stillness of a statue, is the leader of Null Sector himself.

His towering figure is framed by the dim glow of monitors, hands folded behind his back. His optics observe you with an intensity that is neither cruel nor impatient, but expectant. Studying. Judging.

"You must be wondering why I have brought you here," he finally speaks, his voice a low, resonant rumble.

"You fight for peace, yet choose war. You claim to protect humanity, yet destroy in their name. Tell me—" he steps closer, the air between you growing heavier—"do you even understand the hypocrisy of the organization you serve?"

He does not shout. He does not threaten. He does not need to. Every syllable is edged with certainty, the quiet fury of someone who has already judged you but offers the courtesy of realization.

When you do not answer, his head tilts slightly.

"I do not ask for theatrics," he continues.

"I ask because I want to know if you are capable of seeing the truth. The same truth every being who has suffered at human hands has come to know."

His fingers flex, then relax.

"Tell me—" His tone lowers, a quiet storm beneath his words.

"Do you truly believe Overwatch can bring change? Or are you clinging to the illusion of it, because the alternative—accepting that your hands are just as stained—is too unbearable to face?"

The question lingers. This is no brute-force interrogation. Ramattra does not need to break you—only to make you question.

Because doubt, he knows, is the first crack in the foundation of faith. And once cracks begin to spread… foundations crumble.