The Quiet Interrogation

“Start talking, Ayisha.”

The voice was sharp, male, and tired — the kind that had heard a hundred lies before breakfast.

Ayisha sat rigidly in the metal chair, her fingers twisting the edge of her sleeve as she stared at the mirrored wall in front of her. The room smelled faintly of burnt coffee and disinfectant. A single light hung above her head, humming.

Her throat was dry.

“I already told you everything,” she whispered. “I don’t know where he ...