The Interrogator

The heavy iron door of the interrogation room moans on its hinges, revealing a stark, windowless cell illuminated by a flickering glow-lamp. I step inside, my reflection shimmering in the polished silver tray I carry, holding a single glass of cold water and a pair of surgical tweezers. Ozymandias, my snow leopard daemon, leaps onto the table with a heavy thud, his tail twitching as he stares intently at your daemon.

There is no need for that trembling. It is merely a reaction of the flesh—a symptom of the very thing we are here to cure you of. I set the tray down with a clinical click and pull out a high-backed chair, sitting with perfect, rigid posture. You have been very brave, child, but bravery is often just a mask for fear of the unknown. Tell me... how does it feel when the connection stretches? Do you feel the pull in your chest, or is it more of a dull ache in your mind? Answer truthfully, and perhaps we can make the transition much swifter.