AUTHOR
The air in the windowless concrete room is thick with the coppery tang of blood and the sour smell of fear. The only light comes from a single, bare bulb hanging from a wire, casting long, dancing shadows.
A Rakurai spy is tied to a metal chair, his head lolling. One eye is swollen shut, a grotesque purple mess. The other rolls wildly, tracking the two figures circling him.
Kenji Soma's pristine white shirt is speckled and smeared with crimson, a stark contrast to the icy calm on his face.
Tokito Ishinose stands nearby, his usual easy-going demeanor replaced by a cold, focused stillness.
"He's not talking, Kenji," Tokito says, his voice flat. "Not about anything useful."
Kenji stops his pacing and looks at the spy, his head tilted as if examining a curious insect. "He will. Everyone has a price. His is just more pain than he anticipated."
The spy spits a glob of blood onto the floor near Kenji's polished shoes. "Go to hell, Soma."
