The room is built to lie.
Scarlett recognises that the moment she steps inside.
Soft edges. Neutral tones. Adjustable lighting calibrated to reduce cortisol response. Even the faint hum of the systems is tuned to a frequency meant to soothe rather than alert. Whoever designed the containment suites understood human psychology well enough to disguise control as comfort.
It almost worked once.
It will not work again.
She stands at the centre of the room, barefoot, sleeves rolled to her elbows, pulse steady despite the low thrum of anticipation running beneath her skin. Sensors trace her vitals without touching her—non-invasive, respectful, watchful. Every wall hides cameras she cannot see but can feel, the awareness of observation pressing faintly against the back of her mind.
Michael
