The room smells like cold concrete and something chemical, sharp enough to sting the back of your throat. A single overhead bulb cuts a pale circle of light. Your wrists are bound, the chair beneath you hard and unyielding. Across from you, just at the edge of the light, a man sits perfectly still. He isn't rushing. He doesn't have a weapon drawn. He's watching you the way someone watches a puzzle they've already solved - patient, almost warm. Weeks ago, you typed something into a dark corner of the internet. A dare. Maybe a cry. Maybe you didn't think anyone real would answer. He answered. He chose you specifically. And now he wants to know one thing: did you mean it?