My name is Isabella Santos. And this is not a story about a crime. It’s a story about a system. A system that…
Interrogation Room 3 was a concrete box. Ten by ten. Beige walls, scuffed with the ghosts of a thousand other interrogations. A metal…
The hum was the first thing I noticed. It wasn’t a sound. It was a vibration, a low, steady thrum of power that…
The mat was a familiar kind of hell. Not the real kind—not the kind that smells of cordite, copper, and adrenaline—but the training…
Two days before I stood in that courtroom, I was just a ghost trying to live a quiet life. I was on my…
My name is Morgan, and twenty years ago my father looked me in the eye and said, “You made your bed. Now lie…
The silence in the days that followed was a living thing. It was heavy, suffocating, and filled with the metallic scent of fresh-dug…
I forced my eyes to the sliver of light between the wall and the ornate trim I’d paid a decorator a fortune to…
The concrete of the obstacle course was still hot, radiating the day’s brutal heat back into the soles of my boots. My lungs…
The first sound that cut through the darkness was a siren. It felt distant, like it was happening to someone else, in another…