The interrogation room in Ghost Claw's base was a converted storage space, its concrete walls bare except for a single reinforced table bolted to the floor and two metal chairs that had seen better decades. The fluorescent lights hummed overhead, casting that sickly green-white glow that made everyone look slightly ill, and the air was thick with the smell of sweat, fear, and the faint metallic tang of old blood that had never quite been scrubbed out of the floor.
Marco and Polo had been at it for the past two hours, their voices alternating between calm reason and barely restrained fury. The hostage, the wiry man in his forties with a scar across his left cheek and the kind of dead eyes that came from years of violence, wasn't cooperating. He'd spat at them twice, laughed at their threats, and generally made it clear that he had no intention of talking.
"Look," Marco said, leaning forward with his elbows on the table, his voice carrying the kind of patient, reasonable tone that was designed to make the hostage feel like he had a way out. "We're not unreasonable people. We just want to know where the shipments are going. Who's organizing them. Who's paying for them. Give us that, and you walk out of here free. No harm, no foul."
The hostage grinned, his teeth yellow and crooked. "Fuck you."
Polo's hand shot out, slamming against the table with enough force to make the metal ring. His voice rose, cracking with barely contained rage. "You think this is a game?! You think we're just going to let you sit there and waste our time?! I've got a whole list of things I could do to you that would make you BEG to talk!"
"Sounds fun," the hostage said, his grin widening. "Try it. See what happens."
Polo's face went red. His hands clenched into fists at his sides, his knuckles white, his entire body trembling with the effort of holding himself back. "I'll pull your teeth out one by one," he snarled, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. "I'll make you eat them. I'll—"
"Polo." Marco's voice was sharp, cutting through his brother's rage. "Back off. You're not helping."
Polo whirled on him, his eyes wild. "HE'S NOT GOING TO TALK! He's just sitting there, grinning at us like he's got some kind of secret! We're wasting our time!"
"Then we'll find another way." Marco's voice was calm, measured, the voice of someone who'd been dealing with his brother's temper for his entire life. "We'll bring in someone else. Someone who can get through to him."
The hostage laughed, a low, rasping sound that echoed through the room. "You can bring in whoever you want. I'm not talking. Not to you, not to anyone. You think you can scare me? I've been doing this for twenty years. I've been shot, stabbed, beaten, tortured. I've seen things that would make you cry yourself to sleep at night with your mom breastfeeding you all the way. You're nothing. You're amateurs playing at being tough."
Polo lunged forward, his arm raised, his fist aimed directly at the hostage's face. "I'll show you—"
Marco grabbed him by the collar and yanked him back, his voice rising to a shout. "POLO! STOP!"
The two brothers stood there, chests heaving, eyes locked in a silent battle of wills. Polo's fists were still clenched, his body still trembling, but the rage in his eyes was slowly being replaced by frustration, by the bitter understanding that Marco was right.
He let out a long, shaky breath and stepped back. "Fine. Fine! Do whatever you want. I'm done."
Marco released him and turned to the hostage, his expression flat and unreadable. "You're a tough guy. I'll give you that. But even tough guys break eventually. And when you do, we'll be here."
The hostage grinned again. "I'll be waiting."
Marco and Polo walked out of the room, the door slamming shut behind them. They stood in the hallway for a moment, both of them breathing hard, both of them processing the failure.
"Waterboard him," Polo said, his voice low and dangerous. "That's what I should have done. That would have made him talk."
"You can't just waterboard people," Marco said, rubbing his temples. "That's—that's not how we do things."
"Then how do we do things?! Because sitting there and being nice clearly isn't working!"
"We'll bring in Svetlana."
Polo's face went pale. His anger evaporated, replaced by something that looked suspiciously like fear. "Svetlana? But she's, she's been waiting for this. She's been itching to get in there and—"
"Exactly." Marco's voice was grim. "Let her handle it."
They walked down the hallway to the common room, where Svetlana was sitting on the couch, her legs crossed, her expression the kind of calm that was somehow more terrifying than rage. She was reading a magazine—something about fitness and diet—but her eyes were unfocused, her attention clearly elsewhere.
"He's all yours," Marco said, his voice carrying a note of reluctant surrender. "We couldn't get anything out of him. He just sat there, grinning at us like he was having the time of his life."
Svetlana looked up, her face splitting into a slow, predatory grin. "Good. I've been vaiting for this." She set the magazine aside and stood up, stretching her arms above her head, her joints popping with a series of satisfying cracks. "Let me handle him."
She walked toward the interrogation room with the kind of measured, deliberate stride that made Marco and Polo exchange nervous glances. They followed her to the door, watching as she entered the room and closed it behind her.
The hostage looked up as she entered, his grin faltering slightly at the sight of the tall, muscular woman in the black tracksuit. He'd expected more of the same—more yelling, more threats, more empty posturing. But there was something different about this one. Something cold and dangerous that made the hair on the back of his neck stand up.
Svetlana didn't say anything. She just sat down in the chair across from him, crossed her legs, and stared at him.
One hour passed.
She didn't move. She didn't blink. She just stared at him, her expression completely unreadable. The hostage shifted in his seat, his confidence slowly eroding. He tried to stare back, tried to maintain his defiant posture, but something about her gaze made his skin crawl.
Outside the room, Marco and Polo were watching through the small window in the door. Their foreheads were pressed against the glass, their eyes wide, their expressions a mixture of confusion and awe.
"She's just standing there," Marco whispered. "No, wait, she's sitting. She's just sitting there. Menacingly." [insert reference]
"She hasn't even touched him," Polo said, his voice carrying a note of disbelief. "She's been staring at him for an hour. An entire hour. And he's already starting to sweat."
"Whatever she's doing, it's working."
Svetlana continued staring. She didn't break eye contact, didn't shift in her seat, didn't give any indication that she was even aware of the passage of time. The hostage's bravado was crumbling. His hands were shaking. His breathing had become shallow and uneven.
Finally, after what felt like an eternity, Svetlana stood up and walked out of the room. The hostage let out a long, shaky breath, his entire body sagging with relief.
Svetlana walked over to Marco and Polo, her expression still completely unreadable. "Run to the store," she said, her voice flat and businesslike. "Get me a pack of birthday candles, a bamboo seedling in a flower pot, and a DVD box set of The Golden Girls. Season 4 specifically."
Marco blinked, his brain struggling to process the request. "I'm sorry—birthday candles? Bamboo seedling? The Golden Girls?"
"Season 4," Svetlana repeated, her voice carrying a note of iron. "Get it in Blu-ray."
The brothers exchanged bewildered glances. They opened their mouths to ask questions, to try to understand what kind of interrogation required those specific items, but the look on Svetlana's face made them close their mouths and nod.
"Okay," Polo said, his voice uncertain. "Okay, we'll get it. Just... give us forty minutes."
They scrambled out of the building, their footsteps echoing through the hallway as they ran toward the nearest store.
Forty minutes later, they returned, slightly out of breath, carrying a plastic bag containing the requested items. Svetlana took the bag without a word, her fingers brushing against the DVD case as if checking to make sure it was the right season.
"Good," she said. "Now shut the door. This could get very ugly."
Marco and Polo didn't need to be told twice. They backed out of the room, pulling the door closed behind them, and stood in the hallway, their hearts pounding, their ears straining to hear what was happening inside.
For a moment, there was silence.
Then the screaming started.
"AGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!"
Marco and Polo stared at each other, their faces pale. The screaming continued, raw and animal, the sound of someone experiencing pain beyond their wildest nightmares. It echoed through the hallway, through the building, through the very foundations of the structure.
"What the hell is she doing in there?" Polo whispered, his voice barely audible over the screaming.
Marco shook his head, his eyes wide. "I don't want to know. I really, really don't want to know."
The screaming continued for another ten minutes, then slowly faded into sobbing, then into silence. The door swung open, and Svetlana stepped out, her expression still completely unreadable. She was holding the bamboo seedling, which was now missing several leaves, and the DVD case, which was somehow covered in something that looked suspiciously like blood.
"He'll talk now," she said, her voice flat and businesslike. "Give him a few minutes to compose himself, then go in and ask your questions. He'll tell you everything."
Marco and Polo nodded, unable to speak.
Svetlana walked down the hallway, her footsteps echoing in the silence. She paused at the end, turning back to look at them, her expression softening slightly.
"Next time," she said, her voice carrying a note of dark amusement, "try the good cop, bad cop routine vithout the bad cop. It vorks better vhen you actually seem like a good cop."
Then she turned and disappeared around the corner, leaving the brothers standing in the hallway, staring at the closed door of the interrogation room, their minds still struggling to process what they'd just witnessed.