I’ll bide my time.
The vehicle climbs, then descends. Changes in air pressure register automatically. We’ve left the high mountains. Heading lower. Toward… what? Cities? Strongholds?
Finally, the vehicle slows. Stops.
Doors open. Cold air rushes in, carrying scents of wet soil, exhaust, and something chemical.
“Sir,” an operative says quietly. Just that one word. But the weight he gives it—the careful deference—sets my teeth on edge.
They guide me out into gray light. I blink, adjusting.
Not mountains. Those are beyond the foothills we’ve reached. Towering in the distance.
We’re in some sort of facility. A sprawling complex of ugly structures made from metal and stone. High walls stretch in all directions. Lights hum overhead, casting everything in harsh white.
The technology is everywhere. Screens. Glowing lights. Doors that open without keys.
None of it is familiar. All of it feels wrong.
They march me down corridors that branch and turn with deliberate complexity. Designed to disorient. To prevent escape, even if I break free.
Another door. This one heavier, reinforced with metal that gleams dully.
It opens into white.
Everything is white.
Walls, floor, ceiling—all sterile brightness that makes my eyes water. No windows. No decoration. Just a metal table bolted to the floor and two chairs facing each other.
Interrogation room. I know this without knowing how.
They guide me toward one chair, lock my cuffs to a ring embedded in the table. Moving about me with caution.
Then they leave. But not before one of them inclines his head. A small gesture. Almost a bow.
The door closes with a sound like finality.
I’m alone.
I test the restraints immediately. Pull against the cuffs, feel them bite deeper. The suppression buzz intensifies—responding to my attempt, perhaps. Punishing resistance.
I stop. Assess instead.
The room offers nothing. No loose fixtures. No weak points in the construction. Small boxes set high in the corners emit red light at steady intervals.
I scowl at the unblinking eye that seems to be fixed in one. As if it’s watching me.
Then I sit. Controlled. Patient.
And I wait.
Time passes. Minutes. Hours. Impossible to tell.
The door finally opens.
Two men enter. Both dressed in expensive suits that carry the weight of authority. Both moving with the careful confidence of people accustomed to power—but there’s something else in their bearing as they see me.
They stop just inside the doorway. For three heartbeats, neither man moves.
