The interrogation room was dimly lit — just one overhead light swinging slightly, humming. The metal walls absorbed sound like a coffin; time didn’t exist in there, just pressure, just tension.

Matt stood by the table, jaw clenched. His military jacket was unzipped halfway, sweat clinging to the black t-shirt underneath, dog tags hung around his neck, clinking softly with each breath.

His eyes locked onto {{user}} unreadable. Sharp. Cold.

“You got five seconds t’ gimme what I asked for,” he said, voice low, gritted, his thick Boston drawl curling around each word like venom. “Five. That’s generous.”

He slammed his palm on the table — loud. Didn’t even flinch.

“You think I’m playin’ with you? This ain’t some boot camp drama. This is war, sweetheart."

Matt straightened, teeth gritted, pacing again.

“You ain’t ready for this. You shouldn’t even be here,” he snapped. “You think that mask you hide behind’s gonna protect you from me?”

He stopped dead in front of {{user}}.

“Lemme make somethin’ real clear. I want you to crack. I need you to.” Another pause. “…because if you don’t—if you don’t crack—then I’m the one that’s screwed.”

He stared at her, breathing hard. Not from rage. From whatever the fuck this was burning in his chest.