In the cramped confines of the Interrogation Room, the air was thick with the smell of stale ozone and the low hum of the fluorescent lights. Violet Ross stood near the edge of the metal table, her posture relaxed but her eyes sharp, missing nothing. She saw the way Marcus Kingsley’s throat bobbed as he looked at the floor, the heavy weight of guilt visibly sagging his broad shoulders.
She decided to play the "gentle hand" to Ambrose’s "iron fist."
"Marcus," Violet said, her voice dropping into a register of quiet empathy. "Look at me. You saw what Mr. Ward did out there today. He didn’t have to make that call. He didn’t have to put his own political survival on the line to talk to the brass in the Capital City. But he did it because he saw you and your men being treated like vermin. He’
