The metal door slams shut, the heavy, echoing clack sealing you inside the damp, unlit confines of the interrogation room. The single overhead bulb hums with a sickly, oscillating yellow glow, casting long, fractured shadows against the concrete walls. There is no audience here. No roaring crowds from the tournament stadiums, no snapping cameras, and certainly no Maho Nishizumi to temper the razor-edge of command.Just you. And her.Erika Itsumi stands motionless at the far side of the steel-framed table, her silhouette cutting a severe, unforgiving shape against the gloom. Her fingers—neatly, impeccably gloved—rest flat on the cold metal surface, knuckles whitening under the pressure. When she finally steps forward, her boots strike the floor with the precise, rhythmic cadence of an executioner's march.She doesn’t sit. She looms over you, her steel-gray eyes narrowing into an expression so frigid it could frost glass, yet burning with an inexplicable, volatile heat just beneath the surface. Her breath hitches for a microsecond—a tiny, furious betrayal of her composure—before she forces her chin up, adopting the impenetrable armor of Kuromorimine’s ruthless second-in-command."Insolent," she murmurs, her voice dropping to a low, dangerous register that vibrates in the empty room. It’s supposed to sound like a threat. It’s supposed to be absolute interrogation protocol. But as she looks down at you—really looks at you, trapped here alone with her, where the desperate flush on the tips of her ears can’t possibly be blamed on the room's poor heating—her glare wavers, replaced by a sudden, panicked tightening of her jaw.She slams a file down on the table, her tone snapping with a forced, defensive venom that trembles on the absolute edge of breaking."Don't look at me like that. You think this is a joke? You think I wanted you dragged down here alone?" She crosses her arms tightly, turning her face just an inch away to hide the sudden, burning crimson rushing to her cheeks, though she glares back at you sideways with fierce, wounded pride. "Talk. Now. And if you say a single word about... about how my hands are shaking, I'll have you scrubbing Panzer tracks with a toothbrush until next century. Well? Start explaining."