"You are… that boy," the Clown whispered, his voice barely holding together. His wrinkled fingers twitched against the table, knuckles white. "Mi… Mike."
Miles's gaze hardened—cold, sharp, but patient.
"So you remember that name?"
The Clown's eyes widened. Terror flickered beneath the surface. "I—I don't understand… you were with the Graveyard? Is this… is this really a Graveyard base?"
Miles gave a quiet, humorless chuckle, and the sound alone made the old man flinch. He leaned slightly forward, resting his hands on the table. "It doesn't matter what this place is, Clown. What matters is that you answer what I ask. Do you understand?"
The Clown swallowed, his dry throat audible in the silence. "Let me hear the questions first."
Miles's tone dropped an octave, his words slicing through the still air. "That day. The attack on the Graveyard base. Who did it?"
