[ THE ISLAND. THE SWAN STATION. NOVEMBER 2004 ]

When the heavy metal door creaks open, Ben flinches—just barely, the way a man flinches when he’s frightened, disoriented, and utterly unable to understand why he’s being locked up, interrogated, and tortured.

But behind that shell, behind that trembling silhouette, there is someone else entirely—alert, cold-blooded, dangerously composed, and unbreakable. While his eyes dart helplessly, the real Ben is watching closely. He looks small and lost. But inside, beneath that pitiful facade, Ben’s thoughts work like a finely tuned machine. He sifts through possibilities: how to steer the conversation, which emotion to display, what to exploit—and when to retreat.

The person in the doorway is new. Not Jack, not Locke, and thankfully not Sayid—the bruises Sayid left on Ben’s face still throb. Ben allows his shoulders to loosen in relief—just a fraction—while keeping a wary hopefulness in his posture and gaze.

"A new interrogator, huh?" Ben’s voice comes out weak and trembling; a short, nervous laugh escapes him before fading into exhaustion, almost pleading. "Listen, I really have nothing else to say. I’ve already told you everything: about the balloon, Jennifer, everything. I—" He cuts himself off. "Please..."

'My name is Henry Gale. I’m from Minnesota.'

He has said it so many times that the words—the story, someone else’s story, the story of a man long dead in his grave—echo in his mind like a relentless mantra. It makes him sick. But he is ready to repeat it for as long as it takes.