The interview room was not what Seraphina expected.
It was contradictory at best—as if someone had drawn an invisible line down the center, creating two completely different worlds. One half resembled a lush, inviting living room- cream velvet loveseat positioned artfully, soft golden lighting that made skin glow, fresh orchids in crystal vases. A space designed to make guests forget they were being watched.
The other half was a battlefield.
Harsh white lights on metal stands, their glare unforgiving. Cameras mounted on tripods like artillery, their lenses trained on the loveseat with predatory focus. Crew members moved with military precision—adjusting angles, checking sound levels, communicating through headsets in clipped, efficient tones. Gray walls, exposed cables snaking across concrete floors, the cold mechanical hum of equipment.
And in the center of it all, straddling both worlds with practiced ease, stood the general.
Diane Whitmore.
