For hours, I sit in an interrogation room. The fluorescent light overhead buzzes gently. The one in the corner is flickering. The room is otherwise quiet.
Sterile, the concrete walls are painted white, with the tiles on the floor are dark blue. Unnervingly, there is a drain in the floor at the center of the room.
There’s a two way mirror along one wall of the room. A metal door has been locked since I was left in here hours ago. At least, I assume it’s been hours. There’s no clock, and with no windows, I can’t presume to tell time other than with my own gut feeling. I have no idea how accurate that is.
I’m sitting on a hard metal chair with my wrists and ankles bound in handcuffs. I’m achy and uncomfortable.
Still wearing my servant’s disguise, I imagine I haven’t yet been recognized
