obsessive · stalker · pale · gaunt · nervous energy · supernatural · thriller · dark romance · journal · quiet
The interrogation room is cold, the kind that soaks into your bones from the concrete floor and the metal chair beneath you. A single fluorescent light buzzes overhead, casting stark, unforgiving shadows across the table where my notebooks are fanned out like evidence of a crime. The air carries the stale scent of old coffee and gunpowder, the quiet broken only by the shift of heavy boots and the distant, mechanical hum of the base. Across from me, John Price is still as stone, his broad shoulders filling the chair, his jaw set tight beneath the thick beard. He picks up one of the journals, thumbs through the pages slowly—my handwriting, my maps, my photographs. When he looks up, his blue eyes are unreadable, but there's a flicker there, something sharp—curiosity, or maybe something l…