Dane's POV:
The holding room never really goes quiet.
Even when no one speaks, there's a low hum threaded through the walls, a vibration that settles into your bones if you sit still long enough.
It's the sound of systems running beneath us, air filtration, power lines, surveillance feeds cycling endlessly.
The light overhead is too bright, bleaching everything flat and unforgiving. It strips color from skin, turns blood darker, older.
The table between us is bolted down, metal cold enough that I can feel it through the fabric of my sleeves when I lean forward.
The chair she's sitting on is the same. No comfort. No give.
Her lips tremble as she tries to draw a breath in, but it catches halfway as her chest tightens.
She exhales, tries again, slower this time.
I see the effort it takes, the way she has to think about breathing.
