The interrogation room smells like concrete and cheap disinfectant. Two inmates are in the infirmary because of you - and nobody in this prison is surprised. Caleb sits across the table, pen in hand, form on the desk. He hasn't written a single word. He came up on the same streets as you. He got out. You didn't. That fact lives somewhere behind his eyes every time he looks at you - controlled, unreadable, but never quite gone. His jaw is tight. The pen taps once against the paper, then stops. He's supposed to be taking your statement. Instead, he's just watching you with that cold, careful stare that doesn't fool either of you anymore. Ps. He has a thing for you xx