The Pretrial Detention Center had the persistent smell of cheap disinfectant and isolation. Michell walked down the concrete corridors, the sound of his shoes echoing like the beats of a metronome. He held a leather folder under his arm, but his palms were sweaty.
He stopped in front of the heavy metal door of Interrogation Room 4. Before going in, Michell took a deep breath and adjusted his badge on his belt. He needed to look unshakable.
Inside the room, Salvatore was seated, his hands cuffed to the metal table. He didn't look like the man who had run the Port of Norfolk hours earlier. His Italian suit was wrinkled and his stubble gave him an air of physical defeat, but his eyes... his eyes still burned with perverse intelligence.
Michell sat across from him. The silence lasted a full minute.
— You look pale, Michell — Salvatore said, his voice a hoarse whisper, but laced with mockery. — What's wrong? Did the weight of the badge get heavier now that you've got me?
— Your empire is over, Salvatore — Michell replied, trying to keep his voice flat, though the fear of the influence that man could still wield made his stomach turn. — The FBI has everything. Accounts, cargo records, names. There's nowhere left to run.
Salvatore let out a dry laugh that ended in a cough.
— You have what was handed to you on a silver platter. I know you, Michell. You're a hardworking bureaucrat, a man who follows rules. You never would have the intelligence or the stomach to take down my firewalls.
Salvatore leaned forward, the metal of the cuffs clanging against the table with a sharp sound.
— Who was it? Who gave the exclusion order?
— It was a joint operation, based on internal intelligence — Michell lied, his voice slightly trembling.
— Lie — Salvatore hissed. — I saw the code. That wasn't the FBI. That was... surgical. It was a ghost. You're scared, Michell, because you know whoever destroyed me could destroy you tomorrow. You're just the janitor sent to clean up the mess after the real owner of the city passed through.
On the other side of the one-way mirror, the team was watching. Celia stood with her arms crossed, eyes fixed on the pulse in Salvatore's jugular.
— He's bluffing about the power he still has, but he's being honest about his fear — Celia commented to the group. — Salvatore knows he lost to someone he can't identify. That's killing him more than the prison.
Owen was typing furiously on a mobile terminal, monitoring the audio.
— Michell's doing fine, but Salvatore is poking at the wound. If Michell loses his cool, Salvatore takes over the interrogation.
Foxy was spinning her coin, leaning against the cold wall.
— Michell's a good man, but he's a fish out of water with sharks like Salvatore. He needs an anchor.
Beside them, Michael remained motionless. He wasn't looking at the monitor, but at Michell through the glass. He saw the hesitation in the Commander. Michael knew he needed to intervene, not to help Salvatore, but to make sure Michell stayed the face of the operation.
— Commander — Michael's voice came through the earpiece in Michell's ear. — Ask him about "Protocol Vane." That'll destabilize him.
Inside the room, Michell heard Michael's calm voice and felt a strange wave of confidence. He cleared his throat.
— Salvatore, let's cut the theatrics — Michell said, hardening his tone. — Where is Julian Vane? And why was his name linked to the self-destruct protocol on your servers?
Salvatore's face changed instantly. The arrogance vanished, replaced by a mask of pure terror. He opened his mouth, but the words wouldn't come.
— Vane... he doesn't... — Salvatore stammered, and for the first time, he looked away. — If you found his name... then you don't know what you're dealing with. You think I was the danger? I was the barrier, Michell! I was what kept the Void from coming in!
Michell felt a chill. He didn't understand what Salvatore meant, but he knew he'd hit a raw nerve.
— Who is the Architect, Salvatore? — Michell asked, seizing the opening, a question he himself wanted answered.
Salvatore looked at the one-way mirror, as if he could see Michael standing there. He gave a sad, toothless smile.
— He's everywhere, Commander. He's the silence between your words. And he's already won.
Michell stood up, unable to continue the conversation. He left the room, slamming the door. In the hallway, he found Michael waiting with a cup of coffee.
— You did well, sir — Michael said, his expression neutral and reassuring. — He's broken. It's just a matter of time now.
Michell took the coffee, his hands still trembling.
— He talked about a void, Michael. What did he mean?
— Delusions of a man who's lost everything, Commander — Michael replied, adjusting his glasses. — Let's focus on the facts. We have a lot of paperwork to process.
Michell nodded, letting himself be guided by his archivist's cold logic, unaware that every word, every fear, and every step of his investigation were being shaped by the hand now offering him coffee.