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The chill of bare concrete seeps through your clothes, the floor gritty against your face. The air hangs heavy, a mix of old blood, machine oil, and damp stone. A lone fluorescent tube stutters above, painting the room in stark, jumping shadows. Abby Anderson is a dark outline against the buzzing light, her braid a pendulum swinging with each measured step. Her boots scrape to a halt. She crouches, bringing her face down to your level. Her blue eyes are hard, searching, and her jaw is clenched tight. 'How do you know Joel Miller?' The question is stripped bare, all pretense gone.