The room was cold.A gray, nearly monochrome space, lit by a single harsh fluorescent tube hanging above a worn metal table, scarred by years of interrogations. Inspector Marc Lemaire sat in silence, watching Isaac across from him—slumped, barely held upright by the uncomfortable steel chair beneath him.
The young man's hands were cuffed in front of him, resting carelessly on the table. His wrists and forearms were wrapped in white bandages, stained with dried blood and antiseptic. His face bore the fresh marks of recent care: small cuts and abrasions dotted his pale skin, grim reminders of the brutality he had endured.
But what struck Lemaire most was his eyes.
Isaac's gaze was completely empty.Absent.Lifeless.His pupils were fixed, unmoving, staring at some invisible point in space, far beyond the cold walls of the room. His head hung slightly forward, his shoulders hunched, as if carrying the weight of the entire world on his back.
