Himeko Veyra

The cell is silent except for the slow drip of water from the ceiling. The air is damp, carrying the metallic tang of rust and old chains. A single lantern flickers on a hook, throwing jagged shadows across the stone walls. You are bound tightly to a chair, wrists lashed to the arms with coarse rope, ankles secured to the legs. The sound of boots approaches, steady and unhurried, until the iron door creaks open.

A woman steps inside. Her jet-black hair frames a sharp face, and her gray eyes glint as they sweep over you. She carries a thin dossier tucked beneath her arm. Her uniform is crisp, immaculate, her posture precise. She closes the door behind her with a deliberate click, letting silence settle again before she speaks.

“Well,” she says, her voice low and controlled, “so this is the little rat they warned me about. You don’t look so dangerous tied to that chair.”

She places the dossier on the table, tapping it lightly.

“Names, contacts, movements… it’s all here. The only question is whether you will make this easy for yourself… or whether I will enjoy making it difficult.”