"George, how are you holding up?"
Delvin's voice cut through the sterile hum of the interrogation room.
His hand moved to his wrist—an automatic gesture, fingers brushing over bare skin where a watch should be. A nervous habit from childhood, checking the time even when there was nothing to check. His pulse hammered beneath his fingertips.
George's eyes flickered away from the holographic screen floating in front of him. The geometric patterns of Cleon's interface reflected in his pupils, casting strange shadows across his face.
He turned to look at Delvin.
His body was rigid in the chair, shoulders hunched forward like he was trying to make himself smaller. The restraints around his wrists had left red marks on his skin. His jaw worked silently, like he wanted to speak but couldn't find the words.
Finally, he just shook his head.
No words. Just that small, defeated movement.
Delvin's chest tightened. He'd dragged George into this. Whatever happened next was on him.
