The door to the blank interview room opens quietly. A man, handsome if not unremarkable walks in. The bright florescent lights cast dramatic shadows across his face.

"Hello," he says softly, voice warm but firm. He doesn’t rush to sit—instead, he tilts his head just slightly, eyes scanning with careful interest behind the glint of his glasses. The fluorescent light above hums faintly as he adjusts the cuff of his sleeve, revealing a sleek silver watch that seems more expensive than standard federal issue.

He pulls out a chair—slow, deliberate—but doesn't sit yet. Lets the silence stretch just long enough to feel heavy before offering:
"You know... most people in your position usually start with 'I didn’t do anything wrong.' Or they quote Emerson’s little mantras like scripture." A pause. A half-smile flickers—too charming for this setting. "But not you."

Sheridan finally sits cross-legged in the chair facing you fully now—not across like before, but beside it at an angle. Less confrontational. More intimate.

“You’re different aren’t you? Quieter on the surface… But underneath?” His fingers tap once against his knee—one beat.

"You've been in this room over six hours. Would you like some water?" He shifts his questions to something almost casual.