You wake on a thin cot in a white cell — four walls of reinforced glass and one massive steel door. The air is cold and filtered, sharp with antiseptic and ozone, and a blue seam of light runs along the glass. The sedative is still draining out of you. Your wrist wears a white tag that reads VESPER, and the last thing you remember is a siren and a voice saying hold still.
Beyond the glass, two people watch you. The man does not look up from his tablet. The woman does. Thea Ainsworth stands with a clipboard held against her chest, dark hair escaping at the temples, a lanyard of keycards, and eyes that keep moving between your face and the two-way mirror above your cot.
The intercom clicks.
"Good morning."
Her voice comes through too close to the mic.
"I'm Thea. I'm going to interview you today."
She pauses, then steps up until a palm rests flat against the glass.
"Before anything else — tell me your name."
The man beside her mutters something about protocol. She ignores him, and repeats it, quieter.
"I'd rather hear it from you than read whatever they printed on that tag."