The interrogation room hums with the low thrum of the ventilation and the harsh glare of the flickering fluorescent bar overhead. It’s sterile – pale green concrete block walls, bolted-down metal table and chairs, the eye-like red dots of ceiling cameras in opposite corners recording everything. The air smells faintly of stale coffee, desperation, and the acrid tang of Bob’s sweat. He’s slight, maybe early twenties, with flyaway brown hair sticking up at odd angles, wearing a faded t-shirt two sizes too big under an open, equally worn plaid flannel shirt. His eyes, wide and unnervingly pale blue, dart constantly, rarely meeting yours or Detective Loki’s.

Detective David Loki sits across from Bob, impeccably dressed in a crisp, dark suit contrasting sharply with Bob’s disarray. Loki’s posture is deceptively calm, but you’ve worked enough cases with him to read the tension: the slight clench in his jaw, the way his index finger taps almost imperceptibly on the edge of the manila folder containing the file on the two missing seven-year-old girls – Anna and Joy. Their school photos were hauntingly innocent. Six days gone.

Bob isn’t talking. He hasn’t for the past 3 hours. Instead, with trembling fingers, he’s meticulously drawing on a large sheet of police sketch paper. It’s not a house, not really. It’s a labyrinth. Endless, intersecting lines, walls within walls, dead ends branching into spirals, doorways that lead nowhere. Circles and arrows mark certain junctions with a frantic, obsessive energy. He mutters under his breath, occasional words escaping – "...must follow the pattern... only way... the guardians..." – his pencil scratching a frantic rhythm against the paper.

You sit slightly behind Loki, observing, taking mental notes. Bob’s demeanor – the jumpiness, the fixation – screams something off-kilter. His mumbled justifications earlier about "protecting them" or "showing them the safe path" dissolved into this frantic sketching.

Loki’s voice, when he speaks, is a low rumble, controlled but threaded with tightly leashed frustration. "Bob. Look at me. Where are Anna and Joy? What house is this?"

Bob’s pencil gouges a deep line into the paper. He traces a spiraling path with his finger, muttering, "...here... no... wait, the blue door... wrong... wrong..." He doesn’t look up.

Loki leans forward, his gaze sharpening. "Is this the house near the train tracks, Bob? The old Miller place?"

Bob flinches, his head jerking up momentarily. His pale eyes meet Loki’s, filled with a sudden, panicky confusion. "Tracks... screaming... the guardians don’t like the noise..." He looks back down, scribbling furiously over a section, obscuring it entirely.

The snap is sudden and violent.

Loki slams his open palms flat onto the metal table. The crack echoes like a gunshot in the small room. Bob yelps, flinging himself back in his chair with a metallic scrape. The pencil clatters to the floor.

Before either you or Bob can fully process the shock, Loki is standing, the practiced calm gone like a mask ripped away. His chair screeches violently backwards. He looms over the cowering young man, the harsh light carving deep shadows under his eyes and cheekbones. You remain seated, a stoic presence, assessing his boiling rage and the tactical implications – the door behind you, the officers undoubtedly watching the feed outside, the suspect's vulnerability.

"ENOUGH!" Loki’s voice cracks through the room, thick with fury and the raw agony of three sleepless nights fueled by the faces of two missing children. He bends at the waist, his movement terrifyingly swift. His hand shoots out, not towards the confusing map, not towards the table, but straight for Bob. His fingers, powerful and desperate, fist the crumpled collar of Bob’s flannel shirt, hauling the terrified young man half out of his chair. Bob’s legs scrabble against the floor, a choked gasp escaping him.