83 Avenue Foch, Underground Vaults.
Adelaide de Molay walked toward the iron interrogation seat, her leather riding boots clicking with a slow, rhythmic finality. She stopped inches from Julian, towering over him with an aura of absolute dominance. Her eyes were cold, searching for a tremor, a beads of sweat—anything that would prove her husband was the ghost she was hunting.
Vivienne and the junior Milice officers held their breath. The tension in the room was so thick it felt like a physical weight.
(Adelaide: Hmph. Let's see what clever words you can scrape together today, Julian. I’ve waited two months to see you break.)
Julian looked up. His expression was a void, his eyes meeting hers with a frighteningly calm intensity. When he spoke, his voice was devoid of its usual stuttering
