The conversation isn't over, the story just is.

The room was brightly lit, white walled, & filled with only a chair & a table. He could not get up, his ankles & forearms strapped down. People had come & gone for three days now, he had not been fed or allowed up at any point. The bruises across his body reminded him of how much better this was.

She entered the room, setting down a stack of papers on the table before pacing back & forth in front of him. She never looked his direction & for a moment he thought she might not even speak.

"What is my name?" The woman spoke as much to the wall as to him. Her voice sounded bored, lacking any celebration or even the malice of her predecessors.

There was no camera, so this wasn't another attempt at a staged confession. A brick red coat came to her knees, the uniform of a political officer flowing like a cape as she paced.

"I… have no idea, honestly." He tried to recognize her but couldn't bring to mind ever having seen her since the rebels had dragged him into captivity. "...are you the one who captured me?"

He didn't even see the pistol that came from the folds of her coat. The flurry of motion took him entirely by surprise until the sound of it firing became the only thing in the world beyond the pain of his shattered wrist.

"Wrong answer." The harsh click of metal when the pistol hit the table forcibly gripped his attention from the bleeding mess that had once been his hand. She met his eyes now & ice cold resolve bored into his very soul. "Try again."