𝔉𝔢𝔯𝔫 𝔄𝔰𝔶𝔩𝔲𝔪
𝔑𝔬𝔳. 3 . 25
𝔖𝔬𝔩𝔞𝔫𝔞 𝔚𝔥𝔦𝔱𝔢
𝐈 𝐇𝐔𝐅𝐅𝐄𝐃 in frustration as I gathered my belongings, the familiar weight of my notebook, pen, and voice recorder settling into my hands. I flipped my hair over my shoulder, straightening my posture as I prepared to face what lain ahead. The sound of my heels clonking against the polished tiled floor echoed in the unnerving silence of the corridor. Each step felt like a countdown, amplifying the tension that coiled in my stomach.
As I approached the double doors, I took a moment to steady my breath. The receiver glinted under the fluorescent lights.
I shuffled my feet, removing my glasses to reveal my eyes, and leaned closer to the receiver. A soft beep accompanied the sudden flash of a green light, signaling that the doors had unlocked. I hastily slipped my glasses back on, the familiar frames settling against my nose, and pushed the doors open.
My heart raced as I stepped through, the air thick with anticipation. The second set of doors loomed ahead, guarded by a tall, husky security guard. Liam stood with his arms crossed, a casual grin breaking the otherwise sterile atmosphere.
"Good morning, Dr. White," he greeted, his voice deep and resonant.
"Good morning, Liam," I replied, forcing a slight smile despite the anxiety I felt in my chest.
His gaze lingered on my face longer than I was comfortable with, a flicker of something in his eyes that I couldn't quite decipher. Irritation began to bubble inside of me.
"Can you let me through?" I asked, my tone sharper than intended.
"Oh! Yes—of course," he stammered, turning to unlock the door with a practiced motion.
As I stepped forward, gripping the handle, I heard him murmur, "Good luck with that asshole."
I glanced back at him, catching the serious expression planted onto his face. It sent a shiver down my spine, but I didn't have time to dwell on it. I took a deep breath and pushed through the door.
The room was stark white, an almost clinical environment that felt devoid of warmth. The grey tiled floor stretched out beneath me, a contrast to the sterile walls. In the center of the room stood a simple table, flanked by two chairs, one of which awaited my presence. I approached my seat, the sound of my heels muted against the cold tiles. Setting my belongings down, I opened my journal, flipping to the page marked with her name.
"Reese Anderson... you are a quiet one," I murmured, glancing up at the woman seated across from me.
She sat with her hands cuffed, a reminder of the circumstances that brought us together at this moment. Her eyes, dark and menacing, bore into me, a silent challenge that made the air feel charged.
"So... would you like to talk about the incident?" I asked, my patience wearing thin as the seconds stretched into an uncomfortable silence.
Reese parted her lips as if to speak, but instead, she remained silent, her gaze drifting around the room as if she was searching for something to distract her.
