Cassian Blackwood
I don’t like noise in my rooms.
Noise means lack of control.
And I don’t tolerate lack of control.
The man on his knees is still speaking. I let him. Not because I care, but because endings are cleaner when everything useful has already been extracted.
He repeats himself again.
“I didn’t know—”
People always say that right before they stop mattering.
I look at him properly now.
Not because he deserves attention.
Because I’m done waiting.
“Name,” I say.
“luca verl”
The man answers too quickly.
“I didn’t do anything,” he adds.
That is usually the same sentence in different clothing.
I nod once.
The shot is clean.
The room settles again the way it’s trained to.
Next.
The second man is dragged in.
He resists only until resistance becomes inconvenient.
People don’t resist until the end.
They resist until they realize the end is already decided.
“Name,” I say again.
He hesitates.
“I don’t know anything,” he says finally.
I tilt my head slightly.
I don’t raise my voice.
“shot.”
The sound is enough.
A single shot.
No reaction from the room.
The third is brought forward.
Younger.
Still carrying the idea that anger is leverage.
He looks at the guards first.
“What is this? You can’t just—”
I let him finish the sentence.
People reveal themselves when they believe they are still allowed to speak.
Then I step closer.
“What did you tell them?” I ask.
He doesn’t answer.
That silence is not loyalty.
It’s fear.
And fear without truth is useless.
One nod.
Done.
The room adjusts again.
Next.
The fourth understands faster.
That makes it shorter.
He tries honesty too late.
That is still failure.
He drops without ceremony.
By the time silence settles again, I already know I am close.
The list is narrowing.
That is all this is.
A correction process.
Then I notice movement at the edge.
Final group.
Smaller.
Last variable set.
The chair is dragged forward.
I look up.
She is brought in.
Hands tied.
She sits.
Still.
Watching.
I step closer.
“Name,” I say.
“calista morell”
She answers.
The name is wrong.
Immediately.
A guard reacts before I do.
“She’s lying,” he says.
My attention stays on her.
She doesn’t correct herself.
She adjusts slightly in the chair instead.
Then she speaks again.
“There’s an ID in my back pocket. Check it.”
Her hands are tied.
She knows that.
Still offers verification.
That means confidence in truth.
Or confidence in consequence.
I step forward.
No permission asked.
The room tightens behind me.
They know what proximity means.
I reach behind her and take the ID myself.
Close enough that most people would break posture.
I bring it into view.
I don’t look at it first.
I look at her.
Then I read.
The name doesn’t match the list.
Behind me, a guard leans in.
His voice is low.
“She’s not the girl.”
I keep the ID in my hand.
Still looking at her.
And I understand the structure has already shifted.
She is not the same girl.
