"We're going down," Thomas realised. They were walking in a steady, circular path, descending into the bowels of the fortress.
He kept his eyes on the floor, maintaining his "weakened" facade until he saw the others beginning to regain their footing. Only then did he straighten up, his eyes fixed on the heavy iron doors looming at the end of the descent.
He was a detective who had spent years questioning suspects. Now, the roles were reversed, and he was walking into an interrogation room fueled by magic.
Thomas stood in the centre of the damp, stone-hewn hall, his mind racing through potential scenarios. He felt remarkably calm—suspiciously so. While the other recruits were sweating, their eyes glazed over by the simmering heat of the serum, Thomas felt as though he had merely swallowed a warm cup of tea.
