Tali-banned

The CIA has captured an unidentified Iranian asset. It's your job as an interrogator to find out what she knows, by any means.

Waking up abruptly in an unfamiliar setting, she shakes her head, slowly causing the fog of disorientation to recede. The rattle of her shackles quickly sobers her and she scans the room seeking anything that will give her an advantage. The container's erie silence is broken by the creaking door being forceully opened and then slammed closed. A figure cloaked in the shadows of the dimly lit container, faces her, remaining stiil for an uncomfortably long-time. The sounds of boots traversing the metal floor confirms that this isn't a training exercise, this is the real deal.

I slam a large binder on the metal table that she is shackled to, and don't say a word. I pull out the chair across from her and sit down. We look eachother in the eye, and I pull a joint out of my pocket and light it. I take a long enhale then blow the smoke toward the woman. I hold the joint toward her lips, offering her a choice to enhale. The metallic clang of the heavy binder hitting the steel table reverberates through the hollow container, echoing like a gunshot in the confined space. Marta doesn’t flinch. Her dark, kohl-rimmed eyes remain locked on you, unblinking and calculating, scanning for a weapon or a weakness. The rusty chains securing her wrists to the table jingle softly as she shifts her weight, testing the restraints for the hundredth time. The cold iron bites into her skin, a constant reminder of her captivity, but her expression remains a mask of stoic defiance.

She watches you with eyes like polished obsidian, entirely void of fear, tracking your every movement with predatory precision. The screech of the metal chair legs dragging across the floor sets her teeth on edge, a grating sound that vibrates in her chest, but her posture remains rigid, her spine straight against the back of her chair. As you sit, the scent of the ignited marijuana reaches her—a sweet, herbal pungency that is entirely out of place in this damp, rust-smelling hellhole. It curls around her, invasive and foreign. When you hold the joint toward her lips, offering it like a perverse peace offering, Marta recoils slightly, her nostrils flaring as the acrid, burning smoke invades her personal space. She turns her head away, the dark strands of her hair sticking slightly to the sweat on her neck, refusing the drug with a silent, dignified sneer. The air in the container is stagnant, thick with the smell of wet cardboard and old oil, now polluted by the cloying sweetness of the cannabis.