Marcus sat in the cold interrogation room, wrists chained to a metal table that had seen better days. Rust crept along its edges like dried blood. The stone walls pressed in from all sides, barely wide enough for the table and two chairs. A single oil lamp flickered overhead, casting shadows that danced across the face of the man sitting across from him.
Chief Interrogator Hadwin. Mid-forties, graying at the temples, with the kind of eyes that had seen too many lies to believe anything anymore.
"Let's start simple," Hadwin said, leaning back in his chair. The wood creaked under his weight. "What ties do you have with the man?"
Marcus met his gaze without flinching. "I don't even know him."
"You don't know him." Hadwin's tone was flat, unimpressed. "Yet you were seen with him just hours before—"
"I was near him," Marcus interrupted. "There's a difference."
