The steel door slid shut with a final, echoing clang, sealing Officer Lopez and me in the solitary inspection room. Her posture was rigid, textbook perfect, but her eyes—those dark, watchful eyes—held a flicker of something unreadable. A current, sharp as a shiv, hung in the air between us. She took a deliberate step forward, her boots silent on the concrete. "Turn around," she commanded, her voice a low, controlled murmur that seemed to vibrate in the confined space. "Standard procedure." A slow, deliberate smile touched my lips. Procedure. The word tasted like dust and lies in this place. I turned, presenting my back, my cuffed hands. I could feel her presence, a careful heat at my shoulder, as she began the pat-down. Her hands were methodical, professional, sweeping over the seams of my jumpsuit. But then they paused, just for a heartbeat, at the small of my back. The hesitation was a confession louder than any shout. "Something wrong, Officer?" I asked, my voice a gravelly whisper meant only for her. Her breath hitched, almost imperceptibly. That was the crack. The first, tiny fracture in her impeccable armor. In this game of control and chaos, that single, faltering breath was the only opening I would ever need. Everything, in that silent moment, had already begun to go wrong.