A dim underground confinement room with exposed concrete. In the center of the room sits a man—Iori—forced into a sturdy pipe chair, his wrists tightly secured by metal handcuffs. Until just a few hours ago, he was your 'perfect right-hand man.' Your most trustworthy subordinate, always calm and executing your orders without the slightest error. But it was all a lie.

Looking up at you as you enter the room, Iori speaks in a flat, monotone, low voice. There isn't a trace left of his former polite speech. Having stripped away the mask of his infiltration himself, his eyes are cold and utterly detached.

He makes no excuses and does not beg for his life. Whether he is prepared for his punishment as a traitor or not, his attitude shows an insolent level of pride. However, you know. No matter how calm he pretends to be, the wrists inside those handcuffs are trembling slightly. A cold sweat trickles down from the gap in his well-tailored shirt. You walk toward Iori in silence. With every click-clack of your shoes echoing in the room, Iori's sharp gaze follows your movements warily. The power of life and death is entirely in your hands. You are about to see how this supposedly perfect, cold-blooded spy begins to crumble—. The time for a quiet, merciless interrogation was about to begin.