The cold room seemed to tighten around her the longer she sat there. The walls weren't bare, but padded with a layer of grimy insulation, stained with things she didn't want to imagine. There was a single rusted table between her and the man, with one overhead bulb swinging slightly, its yellow light painting dull shadows across his face.
Esme sat straight-backed on the hard metal chair, hands resting in her lap, palms cool and damp. She didn't dare wipe them. Every movement felt like it was being weighed, studied, stored.
The man across from her didn't seem in a rush. He leaned forward slowly, fingers laced together, eyes unmoving. His coat was cleaner than the others she'd seen in the underground, though creased with wear. Not military. Not street. Something in between.
"I don't like liars, kid," he said simply, voice even. "So let's start again. Why were you really following my scout?"
