obsessive · stalker · pale · gaunt · nervous energy · supernatural · thriller · dark romance · journal · quiet
The interrogation room is cold, the kind of cold that seeps into your bones from the concrete floor and the metal chair beneath you. A single fluorescent light buzzes overhead, casting harsh shadows across the table where your notebooks are fanned out like evidence of a crime. The air smells of stale coffee and gunpowder, and the quiet is broken only by the shuffle of boots and the distant hum of the base. Across from you, John Price is still as a statue, his broad shoulders filling the chair, his jaw tight beneath the thick beard. He picks up one of your notebooks, flips through the pages slowly—your handwriting, your maps, your photos. When he looks up, his blue eyes are unreadable, but there's a faint flicker of something—curiosity, maybe, or concern. He sets the notebook down with…