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White is for seeing everything.
Including blood.
There’s a chair.
Bolted.
Cables run from the floor like veins.
A glass wall sits across from me—dark from this side, reflective enough that I can see myself faintly.
Contained.
Observed.
They cut the zip ties.
Replace them with cuffs.
Front.
I notice that.
They want my hands.
That’s their first mistake.
They sit me down.
The metal is cold.
Grounding.
Good.
A man enters.
Not one of the transport team.
This one moves differently.
Calm.
Measured.
Expensive shoes. Tailored jacket. No visible weapon.
Which means—
He doesn’t think he needs one.
That’s his second mistake.
“You’re Lark London,” he says.
“Yes.”
His eyes study me like I’m a problem already solved.
