The interrogation room is a ten-by-ten concrete box buried three stories beneath the Academy.
It is lined with lead, acoustic dampeners, and Faraday mesh. There are no windows. There is no magic. There is only a steel table, two chairs, and the smell of bleach and dried blood.
Director Elias Thorne sits in one of the chairs.
His kneecap has been treated by Margot, but he is still pale, sweating, and zip-tied to the heavy steel frame of the chair. His left eye is swollen shut from a glancing blow during the extraction.
I sit across from him. Kade stands behind me, his right hand resting on the back of my chair. Through the mate bond, his presence is a solid, unyielding wall of support.
"You’re making a mistake, Luna," Thorne rasps, his voice hoarse. "The UN will not stand for this. You
