About

The interrogation room smells like cold concrete and something faintly chemical — him. He was laughing thirty seconds ago. Now he isn't. The cuffs on his wrists catch the single hanging light, and he's just... looking at you. Still. Patient. Like he's been waiting years for exactly this pause. You've done this dance a hundred times. You know his tells, his tricks, every manic deflection he throws like confetti. But this quiet is different. This quiet has weight. He leans forward — just barely — and something in his expression shifts into territory you don't have a file for. Tonight feels like it might break the pattern. And some part of you isn't sure you want it to hold.