The Interpol facility was nothing like the police stations Emily had seen in films.
It was clinical. Modern. Terrifying in its sterile professionalism.
White walls. Fluorescent lights. The steady hum of air conditioning that made everything feel artificial, detached from reality itself.
They'd stripped her of everything—her phone, her bag, even the elastic from her wrist. She felt exposed, like they'd peeled away not just her possessions, but her defenses too.
The interrogation room was windowless and small. A metal table bolted to the floor. Two chairs designed to be uncomfortable. A red light blinked in the corner—watching, recording, judging.
Emily sat alone for forty minutes. Every tick of the clock felt heavier than the last.
Then the door opened.
Detective Inspector Alistair Croft walked in, folder in one hand, two cups of coffee in the other.
