Chapter 13 - The Interrogation Room
The interrogation room of the federal precinct smelled strongly of stale coffee, industrial floor wax, and decades of quiet despair. The walls were painted a dull, depressing institutional gray, broken only by a large, two-way mirror mounted flush against the far wall. Adrian sat handcuffed to a heavy metal bolted table in the center of the room, his massive frame hunched slightly forward, his torn and blood-caked knuckles resting starkly against the cold laminate surface.
The heavy steel door swung open with a loud metallic click, and Agent Vance—not Marcus, but a stern federal prosecutor bearing his exact corporate demeanor—stepped inside carrying a thick manila folder. He dropped the file onto the table with a dull thud, pulled out the opposite metal chair, and sat down deliberately, lacing his fingers together on the desk.
"You've had a very busy twenty-four hours, Mr. Miller," the prosecutor said, his voice flat and devoid of warmth. He opened the folder to reveal a series of printed photographs showing the shattered SUV window, the destroyed observation deck at the water plant, and the forged asset transfer documents. "Property destruction, trespassing on a restricted airfield, resisting arrest, and financial fraud spanning three state lines. The maximum sentence on these charges alone is forty years without parole."
Adrian didn't look at the photos. He kept his dark, unblinking gaze locked squarely on the prosecutor’s face. "Where is my daughter?"
"Maya is currently safe, tucked away in protective foster care while the state sorts out your catastrophic lack of fitness as a guardian," the prosecutor replied smoothly, tapping a pen against the edge of the table. "Though, given that our DNA database confirms you have no biological relation to the child whatsoever, calling her 'your daughter' is legally quite a stretch."
A muscle twitched violently in Adrian’s scruffy jaw. He leaned forward, the chains on his handcuffs rattling against the table legs with a sharp, metallic sound. "Clara is a ghost working for a criminal syndicate that deals in corporate extortion. Everything in that file was manufactured by Marcus Vance to frame me."
The prosecutor offered a thin, patronizing smile. "Mr. Vance doesn't exist in any federal database, Mr. Miller. According to our records, the property where your SUV was parked belongs entirely to a shell corporation legally owned and operated by... Clara Miller. She filed for sole custody and asset forfeiture three weeks ago, citing severe mental instability and domestic volatility on your part."
Adrian let out a dark, humorless chuckle that sent a chill down the prosecutor's spine. "She thinks she won. She thinks taking the server and framing me cuts every tie I have to my past."
"It does," the prosecutor stated firmly, closing the manila folder with a decisive slap. "Unless, of course, you're willing to cooperate with federal investigators regarding the offshore accounts where you hid the stolen infrastructure funds."
"I didn't steal a damn thing," Adrian whispered, his voice dropping into a terrifyingly calm register. "And Clara is about to find out that the server she stole wasn't holding my past assets at all."
The prosecutor frowned, sensing a sudden shift in the room's atmosphere. "What are you talking about?"
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Before Adrian could answer, the fluorescent overhead lights in the interrogation room flickered violently and died, plunging the entire precinct into absolute, pitch-black silence, followed instantly by the automated screech of the building's emergency lockdown alarms.
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