Leon sat alone in a bare, dimly lit room, his expression blank, eyes half-lidded in disinterest. The soldiers had dropped him off without a word, not even pretending to follow protocol.
The moment the door shut behind them, they left—quickly—like they couldn't get away fast enough.
The room itself was claustrophobic, stripped down to the essentials: four steel-gray walls, no windows, a bolted door, a rusted table, and a single chair placed opposite Leon's.
Above, a single bulb hung from the ceiling on a loose wire. It flickered every so often, casting weak, uneven light that barely counted as illumination, more shadow than glow—like it had long since given up the will to shine.
Outside, muffled screams echoed through the concrete halls—agonized and broken. They were the cries of people mid-interrogation. The sounds were clearly intentional, engineered to crawl under the skin.
The entire room was built with a singular purpose: psychological erosion.
