Mordred succumbed to physical exhaustion, and Isaac abruptly awoke from unconsciousness, his eyes snapping open like doors torn from their hinges. A desperate gasp tore through his throat as air flooded his lungs with the force of a tidal wave. The harsh, clinical white light struck him directly, eliciting a painful blink. This artificial brightness, devoid of warmth, seemed intent on piercing the depths of his soul.
He remained in the sterile interrogation room a soulless concrete cube where even shadows dared not linger. Four grimy white walls, a brushed metal table bolted to the floor, and two chairs fixed in place. A setting designed to break spirits rather than host conversations. The room itself stood as a silent accusation.
