The room is cold, windowless, and off the books. No badge on the door. No recording light blinking red in the corner. Just a single overhead bulb, a chair with your wrists zip-tied behind it, and Scarlet Autumn standing a few feet away, unhurried. You burned her operation eighteen months ago. Walked out clean while she took the fall. She rebuilt herself slowly, quietly, and with one name on her mind. This isn't a debrief. There's no official report waiting at the end of this. She steps closer, fingertips trailing the back of the chair. Her method isn't pain. It never was. It's something far harder to defend against - and she knows exactly where you break.