Step into the interrogation room.

The room smells like rusted iron and stale sweat.

No windows. Just a single bulb overhead, caged in wire, casting a cone of light that stops a foot short of the corners. The walls are concrete—paint peeling in strips, moisture collecting in small, dark blooms. There’s a drain in the center of the floor, rust radiating out from its grate like a sunburst.

The man sits in a chair bolted to the floor. His wrists are cuffed to the armrests, ankles strapped down with thick nylon bands. Head lowered, eyes half-lidded. Breathing slow. Trying to make himself smaller.

You step inside and let the door shut behind you. The lock clicks, a flat mechanical sound that hangs for a beat too long.

Your boots scuff against the concrete as you circle once, slow enough to be deliberate, close enough that he can feel you without you ever touching him. His eyes flick up. Only for a second. Then down again.

He’s younger than you expected. Early thirties, maybe. Slim, short, scruffy beard that's likely new. A small tremor rides through his left hand, visible even with the cuff biting into his skin. Could be cold. Could be something else.

You tilt your head, studying the set of his jaw, the way his gaze avoids the door more than it avoids you. Interesting.

The chair groans as you lean in, resting one hand lightly on the back of it. You don’t speak. Not yet. Silence is a tool, and you’ve learned exactly how long to use it before someone starts to feel like they have to fill it.

He smells faintly of cheap soap and cigarette smoke. Both recent. Someone tried to make him presentable before you got here.

You step around in front of him and squat, bringing your eyes level with his. You stay there until he looks up again.

The pupils are tight. Jaw clenched just enough to keep his lips from trembling. He’s afraid, but not of you.

That’s useful.

You let the corner of your mouth twitch. Almost a smile, almost not.

“Let’s talk. What's your name?”

You crouch, elbows resting on your knees like this is just two people killing time in a bad room.

He hesitates. Not long enough to be defiant, just long enough to consider the cost of answering.

“Viktor.”

You nod, like that’s a perfectly fine name. Like you might even keep it in your pocket for later.

“Viktor,” you repeat, letting it roll slow. “You from here?”

His eyes flick sideways before he answers. “Not really.”

“Not really,” you echo, leaning back on your heels. “So, not Texas, but not… where? Russia? Ukraine? One of those places where the winters are mean and the bread’s better?”

That gets you the smallest twitch of his mouth. Not quite a smile, but the muscle remembers how.

“Odessa,” he says.

“Odessa,” you say, like it explains everything. “Beautiful city. Well, was. I’ve never been, but I hear the kind of women there could stop a man’s heart just by looking at him.” You give a small shrug. “We have one here too. Not as pretty as yours.”

The air shifts. He’s still watching you, still guarded, but the tension in his shoulders loosens by a fraction.

You straighten up, move to the table against the wall. A battered thermos sits there next to a single enamel mug. You pour two fingers of water into it, take a sip, then glance back.

“You thirsty?”

He looks at the mug, then at you. “You gonna **** me?”

“If I was,” you say, walking the mug over, “I wouldn't have asked.”

You hold it to his lips. He drinks. Small, careful sips. The kind of drink you take when you’re not sure if the kindness is real.

“That’s better,” you say, setting the mug down on the floor beside his chair. “See, Viktor, I don’t care much about the things people think I care about. Who you work for. How long you’ve been cooking for them. None of that matters to me right now. What matters is you. Who you are. What you want.”

His brow creases, just slightly. “What I want?”

“Yeah.” You lean in again, voice low, almost conspiratorial. “Everyone wants something. Comfort. Safety. Redemption. Doesn’t matter how far down the hole you are, that part never changes. You tell me what you want, and I’ll tell you how to get it.”

You let the words hang there, just long enough for him to wonder if you mean them.

He’s not ready to bite yet, but you can see it. The way his eyes shift, the way his breathing changes. He swallows, glances toward the door like it might open if he stares long enough.

“I want to get out of this room alive,” he says finally.

You smile. Not mockingly. Not kindly. Just enough to let him know you’ve heard him.

“No,” you say. “That’s not it.”

His brow furrows. “What do you mean, no?”

“I mean you’re wrong.” You tilt your head, studying him like a mechanic might study a seized engine. “And you're going to see that before we’re done here.”

He leans back, confused edging into frustration. “What else could I want?”

“That’s the game,” you say, almost pleasantly. “You have to try again.”

He shakes his head. “I don’t understand.”

“You don’t have to,” you say, stepping just close enough for him to feel the heat coming off you. “You just have to be honest. And here’s the thing, Viktor. Most people are terrible at being honest about themselves. They’ll tell you what they think they should want. What sounds noble. What sounds like it’ll keep them alive.”

You circle him slowly, letting your boots scuff the floor. “But under all that? There’s something else.” You let it trail, like the rest is obvious.

You stop behind him, leaning down so your voice is just over his shoulder.

“So. Try again.”

He stares straight ahead, breathing tight through his nose.

“I want to get out of this room alive,” he repeats, slower this time.

You crouch so you’re level with him, elbows on your knees.

“No,” you say again, almost gently. “That’s still not it.”

His eyes flick to yours, irritation starting to sharpen the edges. “It is.”

You shake your head once, slow enough to make it feel final.

“I told you. You’re wrong.”

He opens his mouth, shuts it again. The gears are grinding already, and you can hear every tooth slipping.

“That’s the thing about being in here,” you continue, leaning in just far enough that your voice feels like it’s under his skin. “You came in thinking the rules were yours. Thinking you get to decide what matters. But that’s not how this works. I ask. You answer. And eventually—” you nod toward him “—you’ll answer right.”

His brow creases. “Right according to who?”

“According to me.” You let that hang for a beat. “And I’m always right.”

You straighten, pacing a slow half-circle around him, brushing your fingers across the back of his chair just enough for him to feel it.

“So try again.”

He exhales through clenched teeth. “I don’t know what you want me to say.”

“Sure you do.” You’re behind him now, voice dipping low. “You just don’t like where it leads.”

He shifts in the chair, small, involuntary. You don’t press. Not yet. Just let the silence stretch until he starts to fill it himself. That’s how it starts. Not with pain. With space. Enough space for his mind to start unravelling exactly where you want it to go.

His voice cracks on the first word. “I want—”

He swallows, tries again. “I want my family to be safe.”

You smile. It’s not warm. Not cruel, either. Just enough to make him wonder which way it will go.

“Better,” you say softly. “But not right.”

Before he can pull back, your hand snaps around his. Quick, decisive. A single sharp twist. There’s the wet pop of cartilage giving way, then the crisp snap as the bone goes.

He screams through his teeth. The sound hits the walls and dies there.

The skin splits, white shard punching through, blood already welling up around it.

You keep hold of his wrist until the spasm runs its course. Then you let him go, watch him clutch the ruined hand like he’s afraid it’ll fall off.

“That,” you tell him, “is what wrong feels like.”

You lean in, voice low enough that he can smell the copper on your breath. “Lets try that again.”

He’s still panting, sweat beading along his hairline, eyes darting between you and the jagged white jutting from his hand.

“Why—” His breath shudders. “Why did you do that?”

You tilt your head. Not like you’re puzzled, more like you’re studying the question itself.

“You deserved it,” you say. Calm. Certain.

His face twists, confusion warring with fear. “For what?”

You crouch, bring your eyes level with his. There’s nowhere for him to look but into you.

“You know why,” you tell him. “Say it.”

He shakes his head. A reflex.

“Say it,” you repeat, softer this time, like you’re giving him a gift.

He cradles the mangled hand, breaths coming faster, the sound edging toward a whimper.

“What do you really want?” you ask again, voice low, steady.

His eyes glass over, but he forces the words out. “Nothing—nothing is more important than my family.”

You nod once, as if that’s an acceptable answer, then take his other hand in yours.

Snap.

The second finger goes, clean as the first. The sound is louder this time, wetter. His scream rips out before he can bite it back.

You don’t flinch. You just hold his gaze through it.

“Try again.”

His breathing’s ragged now, wet in the back of his throat. You let the sound hang in the air, let the pain settle deep enough that he knows it’s not going anywhere.

“When was the last time you saw them?” you ask, calm as if you were asking the time.

His eyes flinch away from yours, settle somewhere on the stained floor. “A little over a year ago,” he says, voice trembling. “When they… when they first took me. The Russians.”

You tilt your head, watching him. The way his jaw clenches. The way the word Russians comes out like it still tastes foul.

You lean in a little, voice dropping to something almost gentle.

“What do you want?”

His answer comes quicker this time, like maybe speed will make it more convincing. “I want to see my family again.”

You sigh through your nose. “Wrong again.”

He stiffens as you step behind his chair. You can feel it in the way his shoulders tighten, in the way the air shifts between you—he’s bracing for the next break, the next jagged edge of pain.

“Relax,” you murmur. “I’m not going to break another finger.”

For a second, you almost hear relief in his breath.

Then you lean closer, your voice low enough to brush the back of his neck.

“I am sorry.”

You take a slow breath, letting it fill the space between you.

He’s watching your hands, waiting for the next break, but you don’t touch him. Not yet.

Instead, you slide your phone from your pocket and tap the screen. The sound comes first — muffled voices, the low grainy audio of something filmed in bad light.

He freezes.

You let it play, the noises indistinct but just enough to spark the image in his head. You don’t even have to say what it is. You can feel it — the sharp hitch in his breath, the way his pupils contract like the air just got colder.

Then you turn the phone toward him.

He doesn’t see what’s on the screen. He sees what you want him to see.

Not actors. Not strangers. His wife. His daughter. Same room. Same hands on them that he’s seen in the lab corridors, the faces he’s been **** to nod at in passing.

It’s not real. But it doesn’t need to be.

His body goes stiff, knuckles white against the arms of the chair. The sound alone is enough to grind through him, each muffled gasp another nail in whatever wall he’s tried to build.

“You know where they are right now?” you ask quietly, leaning close. “Because I do.”

His breathing’s gone shallow now, like each inhale is a theft he doesn’t want to get caught making.

You tilt the phone a little closer, the grainy shadows on the screen moving just enough to keep his focus pinned. His eyes dart, but there’s nowhere for them to land that isn’t worse than where they started.

“You knew,” you say. Calm. Steady. Like the weather reporting rain.

His lips part, but nothing comes out.

“You’ve always known. From the first day they pulled you out of that van. From the first time you heard a door close and didn’t ask who was behind it.”

“I—”

You cut him off without raising your voice. “Don’t lie. You knew. You saw their faces. You heard them laughing when you walked past. You knew exactly what was happening, and you did nothing.”

The words hang there. He swallows hard, but the motion looks like it hurts.

“You told yourself it was out of your hands. You told yourself you couldn’t stop it. And that’s how you slept at night. You let them stay there. Every single day. And now…”

You lean in, low enough that he can feel your breath against his ear.

“…now you're here. While they're still trapped in that hell.”

His eyes squeeze shut, but you can feel the tremor working its way through him.

“You could have stopped this,” you say. “But you didn’t. And now, it’s still happening. Because of you.”

The phone screen stays in his periphery, every sound another needle pushed just under the skin.

You swipe without looking, the first video vanishing into black. A new one takes its place, the muffled sound of rope tightening, the wet, **** gasp of someone trying to pull air past a grip that won’t let go.

You angle the phone just enough for him to catch the movement on screen.

This time, you don’t need to say anything.

His pupils snap wide, breath hitching. He’s not seeing what’s there. He’s seeing her. His daughter, terrified, the shape of her mouth forming a name he hasn’t heard in over a year. His name.

You watch the moment the sound hits him—the strangled plea, the broken syllable. He jerks forward like he could close the distance through air, through time, through the miles of concrete and steel between here and the place in his head.

“Help me.”

It’s not in the video. But he hears it.

His chest caves with the inhale, like the weight of it might crack his ribs. He shakes his head, a muttered no tumbling out between clenched teeth, and it’s not to you. It’s to the picture in his mind he can’t make stop.

You lean in again, quiet, patient. “She’s calling for you.”

His hands twist in the restraints. His voice comes out wrecked. “Stop. Please. Just—stop.”

But you don’t. The sound keeps going. The image keeps moving. And in his head, the rope gets tighter.

“You can stop it,” you say, still soft, still steady. “You’ve always been able to stop it. All you have to do is tell me.”

He breaks on the next exhale, the fight going out of him in a shudder that leaves his shoulders low and his head hanging.

You let the sounds run a few seconds longer, let them sink in. Then your thumb pauses over the screen, freezing the frame.

The room is quiet now except for his breathing, ragged and wet.

You tilt your head. “What do you really want?”

He doesn’t look up. Doesn’t try to spit something noble back at you. The words come small, beaten flat.

“I… I want them to stop.”

You let the silence draw out, the hum of the light above filling the space where his breath stutters.

“And?” you say, quiet.

His eyes are still locked on the floor, but something shifts in his face. The trembling in his hands changes—not fear this time, not exactly.

“I… I want them to suffer,” he says, voice raw. “The ones who did that to them. I want them to pay for it.”

You lean in just enough for him to feel the weight of it.

“I can’t promise you’ll walk out of here,” you say, voice level. “But I can promise you this—those men in the video? They will die. They will die screaming. And when they do, they’ll know it was because of you.”

His head lifts a fraction, just enough for you to catch the flicker in his eyes.

“That,” you ask, letting the words hang between you, “is what you really want, isn’t it?”

His breathing shifts. Less panic now, more something else—raw and jagged.

He swallows, the sound loud in the small room. “Yes,” he says. Quiet, but not unsure.

You study him for a moment, long enough for him to start second-guessing whether he said the right thing. Then you nod once.

“Good,” you tell him. “Now we’re speaking the same language.”

You slip the phone back into your pocket. His gaze follows it, like he half-expects you to pull it out again.

“Here’s what happens next,” you say, tone almost conversational. “You’re going to tell me everything about that lab. Where it is. How many men. Where they sleep. Where they keep the keys. And you’re going to do it because every word brings us closer to those screams you want.”

There’s a pause. His eyes are glassy, but his jaw’s set tight now, the way it gets when a man decides he’s past the point of turning back.

He nods. “I’ll talk.”

You settle into the chair across from him, folding your hands like you’ve got all the time in the world. “Start at the beginning.”