The interrogation room wasn't large. Just four walls, a table, and a single overhead light that hummed faintly with the uneven rhythm of old wiring. The kind of space designed to feel sterile and unwelcoming. Not hostile—but quiet in the wrong way. The kind of quiet that forced the truth out, even if the speaker didn't mean to give it.
I stood near the mirror.
Grant sat across from the man—our witness. I hadn't asked his name yet. I wanted to watch him first.
His coat was now draped over the back of the metal chair. Sweat clung to his collar. He kept wringing his hands as if they were stained. His knee bounced under the table, betraying a restlessness his voice hadn't yet reached.
"Let's start from the beginning," Grant said, voice calm. "Name?"
"Jacob," the man replied. "Jacob Moret. I… I work deliveries, third shift, mostly food and house care. I live in Sector 47. I've been here for years."
"And this morning?"
