Interrogation Booth

A windowless chamber of bare metal walls lined with humming equipment, its harsh fluorescent light casting long shadows across the durasteel floor. The air smells of ozone and antiseptic, the only ventilation a low, cycling draft that fails to mask the stench of fear clinging to the walls. Two chairs face each other across a narrow console scarred by earlier interrogations; Romana’s restraints chafe against the plastic armrests as the Shadow’s interrogator tightens them, the metal groaning under duress. A display flickers with a looped recording of Romana’s earlier resistance, her voice cracking over accusations that no longer matter. The space compresses every sound into echoes, amplifying her pleas and the interrogator’s rising voice until they merge into a single chord of dread.