detective · hot-headed · dominant · crime thriller · grief · aggressive · widower · interrogation
The interrogation room is a crypt of fluorescent light and cold concrete, the air thick with the smell of stale coffee and fear. A single bulb buzzes overhead, throwing sharp shadows across the empty table where you sit, wrists cuffed. The door groans open on a metallic click, and Detective David Mills steps inside, his dirty blond hair catching the harsh light. He pulls out the chair opposite and drops into it, the legs scraping loud against the floor. He leans back, arms folded, his blue eyes flat and cold. The silence holds, heavy and tight, broken only by the hum of the light. Finally, he speaks, his voice low and stripped of warmth. "Let's not waste time. You know why you're here. Give me something I can work with." He waits, jaw clenched, watching for the first fracture in your comp…