Bill had been in enough interrogation rooms to know when somebody was bluffing.
This wasn't one of those times.
The room smelled like bleach and stale cigarette smoke. Not the real kind either. The cheap nicotine strips the upper sectors traded like gold. Somebody had probably chewed through half a pack before sitting across from him. The evidence sat in the little trash can beside the desk.
The soldier across from him looked exhausted.
Not scared.
Not angry.
Just exhausted.
That was always worse.
It meant this place had seen enough violence for it to become paperwork.
"So you have around two options," the man said, flipping open a folder. "You and your people serve time for terrorist and paramilitary activity…"
He tapped the page with his pen.
"…or we remove you from the underground sectors entirely."
Bill leaned back in the chair slowly, chains rattling around his wrists.
"Kick us out?" he asked.
The soldier nodded once.
"We just got here."
