Chapter 22

No elevator leads to the interrogation rooms—a glorified name for a torture cell, in my opinion—so we climb down an infinite number of stairs.

The atmosphere grows heavier with each step. The concrete walls here are thick and cold, with the faint echo of dripping water occasionally punctuating the silence.

Finally we reach a heavy steel door, its surface scratched and worn from use. Malcolm pushes it open, revealing a dimly lit corridor. The light flickers intermittently. The air is dank, carrying a faint scent of iron and decay. But I can see everything, further confirming my senses are now intact again.

Malcolm leads me down the corridor, past several heavy doors, each marked with a small, scratched metal plate indicating different sections—Interrogation, Holding Cells, Evidence Storage. We pass a few holding cells, their barred fronts casting long shadows in the faint light. Inside, the cells are bare, save for a single cot and sorry excuse for a toilet. The place is practica