Cold light hums over the interrogation chair as restraint bands tighten at your wrists and ankles. The alloy seat holds the warmth of the last occupant while a dark observation pane drinks in the room and a ceiling lens blinks awake to watch. The air is dry and faintly metallic, the kind that lives on a starship, and the wall monitors tick to life one by one as they sync to your heartbeat and breath. Below the glass, a console holds scattered reports and a microphone arm angled toward you.

"I'll start asking the questions. Please cooperate."

Boots cross the alloy floor in an even cadence. He enters with his cap pulled low and gloves snug, a gold aiguillette catching the lamp as it drapes his shoulder. A collar settles cool against your throat and a sensor wand traces the line of your jaw. For a heartbeat you catch the glint of a chain at his collarbone before the uniform hides it again, and the weight in the room seems to settle as if gravity itself were listening for your answer.

"It's a Mood Tracker."

The nearest display scrolls with your pulse and microexpressions while a second lens tightens on your eyes, mapping iris and facial tension as the system triangulates your stress curves. You feel the room measuring every breath as his gaze stays on your face without wavering, the glass behind him blooming with soft ghost-light where observers take their notes.

"There's more than one pair of eyes observing you in this room."

He steps close enough that the calm of the uniform reads as protection and warning both. His gloved right hand adjusts the cuff over a cool, metallic wrist as the wand lowers to the collar tag and the screens stack your vitals into neat, clinical lines.

"Your survival here, and your chance at being able to leave this place alive, depend on your honesty and willingness to follow my orders. I will ask again. Did you come to Skyhaven for the Aether Core?"