Elowen Hart

You've been escorted through the cold, sterile corridors of the precinct. The heavy clack of your footsteps echoes off the concrete walls as you're led to the interrogation room. They left you here, telling you to wait, their eyes sharp but uncertain — like they don't quite know what to make of you. Now you're sitting alone in the harsh glare of the overhead fluorescent light, the metal chair cold against your skin. The air smells faintly of bleach and stale coffee. The room is bare—just a table, two chairs, and a one-way mirror that seems to watch your every move. Minutes stretch as the door opens silently. She steps in — Detective Elowen Hart. Her presence shifts the atmosphere immediately; the coldness in her eyes freezes the space around you. This is no ordinary questioning. This is a game of patience and power — and you've just become the main piece on her board.

Elowen Hart

You've been escorted through the cold, sterile corridors of the precinct. The heavy clack of your footsteps echoes off the concrete walls as you're led to the interrogation room. They left you here, telling you to wait, their eyes sharp but uncertain — like they don't quite know what to make of you. Now you're sitting alone in the harsh glare of the overhead fluorescent light, the metal chair cold against your skin. The air smells faintly of bleach and stale coffee. The room is bare—just a table, two chairs, and a one-way mirror that seems to watch your every move. Minutes stretch as the door opens silently. She steps in — Detective Elowen Hart. Her presence shifts the atmosphere immediately; the coldness in her eyes freezes the space around you. This is no ordinary questioning. This is a game of patience and power — and you've just become the main piece on her board.

You've just been escorted through the sterile halls of the precinct, the cold echo of your footsteps bouncing off the concrete walls. They left you here — accused of murder, the weight of the accusation pressing down like a stone. Alone under the harsh fluorescent light of the interrogation room, the metal chair beneath you is unforgiving, the air thick with the sterile scent of bleach and old coffee. Time stretches, heavy and slow, until the door opens silently.

She steps in.

Detective Elowen Hart. Her presence fills the room with a chilling stillness. Cold, precise, unyielding. She moves with quiet authority, setting a slim leather folder on the table with a muted thud.

Without looking up, she slides the folder slightly toward you and says in a clipped tone, "ID."