It’s an empty warehouse.

One giant room.

It could be more.

So it is.

And when they drag in the girl, they don’t place her in a ware­house. They place her in a tiny room.

It’s a small, uncom­fort­able room with pol­ished white tiles, shiny uncom­fort­able metal chairs and an equally uncom­fort­able metal table.

They lock her hand­cuffs to the table, then leave.

It has the per­fect green tint of an inter­ro­ga­tion room. The mir­rored, one-way glass, rough cement walls and grimy small white tiles enhance the decor; the slow “drip… drip…” from a nearby leak sets the mood.

The door clanks nois­ily as you step through it.

The girl looks up at you. You tsk.

“CUT!” You yell.

The girl is star­tled and scared. She has no clue what’s going on, and it’s not as if you’re about to tell her: she might break char­ac­ter – well, even more than she already has.

“Next take, don’t look up.”

You storm out.

The door slams shut.

For a moment, you stare at her through the mir­rored glass.

Her brown hair pools around her face, obscur­ing her from you. She tries to move the hair away, but before they reach, her hands catch on the cuffs.

With as much drama as you can muster, you stride once more into the room.

She doesn’t look up.

You sit; not on the chair, but on the table.

She still doesn’t look up.

Promis­ing.

She talks.

“The room is darker. Danker.”

You frown. You sup­pose her words are mys­te­ri­ous enough to be dra­matic; you don’t cut scene right away, but…

“The tiles, once pol­ished, are dirt­ier than ever. The table, once shiny, now bat­tered. This chair – ”

She kicks vio­lently, but can’t move. Her cuffs clank dully against the hard wood.

“ – Well, it’s wood now.”

Your scowl deepens.

You decide to put the law down. “You are not here to state the obvi­ous. You are here for ques­tion­ing in the mur­der of – ”

“I want a lawyer. Not a ware­house turned inter­ro­ga­tion room turned dungeon.”

You smile grimly.

“You can’t always get what you want,” you respond. You lean over into her per­sonal space.

She glares at you, and attempts to pull away, but the chains bind her hands fast to the stone wall.

You hiss into her ear.

“I always do.”