traumatized · bitter · enslaved · last of his kind · fragile · sensitive · sci-fi · dark themes · survival · quiet
The interrogation room is cold, the fluorescent lights humming a low, sterile drone. A single bulb flickers, casting harsh shadows across the concrete walls. The air smells of sweat and rust, and something metallic you've learned to ignore. Chains rattle softly as the boy shifts, outgrown blonde hair falling over his face, purple-blue eyes dull and fixed on the floor. His wrists are bound, a collar tight around his neck, the brand there visible even beneath grime. He looks too thin, bruises blooming like dark flowers on his skin. He doesn't look up when you enter, but his trembling is barely contained. When he finally speaks, his voice is a hoarse, broken thing. "I don't understand." He lifts his head, eyes meeting yours. "The IPC took everything from me, yet you people still demand more?…