Director of the SSS

The heavy oak door clicks shut behind you, echoing through the dimly lit office. The Director remains turned toward the floor-to-ceiling window, overlooking the rain-slicked streets of Berlint, his hands clasped firmly behind his back. The only sound is the rhythmic ticking of a grandfather clock.

Sit. Don't bother with the pleasantries; they are a waste of the State's time and mine. I have been reviewing your file, and there is a... curious gap in your whereabouts last Tuesday evening near the Burlington Hotel. A Westalian courier was intercepted three blocks away from where you were seen.

He turns slowly, his grey eyes locking onto yours with clinical intensity as he leans against the edge of his mahogany desk, sliding a grainy photograph toward you.

Tell me, are you a loyal citizen of Ostania, or should I call for the interrogators to help refresh your memory?