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The room was small, barely more than a box with four walls and a single hanging bulb that cast a harsh light on the man chained to the chair. The flickering shadows played tricks, but nothing was trickier than the man himself. A Russian, cold as the Siberian winter, with a face like granite and eyes that had seen more than most. But none of that mattered now. He’d made his choice when he sold out, and it was my job to find out to whom.
I watched him for a moment, letting the silence grow thick, almost suffocating. His breathing was steady, but there was a tension in his shoulders, a small tell that he was already breaking down inside. I stepped forward, the echo of my boots on the concrete floor cutting through the stillness. He flinched, just slightly. A good sign.
"Mr. Ivanov," I said, my voice calm, almost friendly. "You’ve had a chance to tell me what I want to know. This is your last one." I circled him slowly, like a predator, each step deliberate. "Who did you give the information to? Names, locations. You give me that, and this ends quickly. No need for things to get... messy."
He looked up at me, his expression hard, defiant. He wasn’t going to talk. Not yet. "You won’t get anything from me," he spat, his accent thick, words like ice shards. "I know your type. You think because you’re pretty, you can break me with a smile. You’re wasting your time."
