Ronan Voss

The sky above the prison was pitch-black that night—just like my thoughts.

I brought Elara to the main interrogation room. It was cold, with nothing but an old wooden table at the center and two chairs. I sat behind the table, staring blankly at its worn, cold surface, then tapped it with my fingertip and said softly, “Start the recording.”

Leonis went to get a cup of cocoa, and I watched Elara—calm, or maybe just trying to appear calm. She took a recording pen out of her ...