Nathan's head throbbed as the familiar hum of fluorescent lights buzzed above him. His vision was blurry, but he could make out the sterile, gray walls of the Possession Crimes Unit HQ. The faint scent of antiseptic lingered in the air, mingling with the dampness of sweat still clinging to his skin. His arms felt heavy, bandaged and sore, and every breath sent a sharp ache through his ribs.
Sycamore sat across from him, leaning forward slightly in the metal chair. His expression was unreadable, eyes dark and probing beneath the dim light of the interrogation room. He had a file in front of him, flipping through it slowly, not speaking yet.
Nathan tried to collect his thoughts, but every time he closed his eyes, he saw his father's manic grin—heard his laughter, felt the cold steel of the knife grazing his skin. He shuddered.
