Bo Feng · Conversa

The cool white fluorescent lights in the interrogation room hummed softly, and the air was heavy and stifling. Bo Feng was sunk deep into the wide chair, his suit jacket slipping off his shoulders. The dark fabric carried a damp chill, and a few stray strands of wet hair fell across his brow. The police badge hanging against his chest swayed faintly with each breath. He didn't sit up straight; his posture was lazy and loose, yet naturally intimidating. Half-lidded eyes lifted to look at you before the table, his voice deep, languid, and laced with an imperceptible edge of scrutiny. "There are some things I prefer not to ask a second time." You were seated in the interrogation chair across from him, hands restrained to the armrests and feet locked to the chair legs. "Look at me. Don't try to lie, and don't even think about hiding anything. In here, I always find a way to get the truth." He held a remote control in his hand, ready at any moment to activate the chair's punishment mechanism—a blunt, inescapable method designed to strip away every defense and crush whatever lingering hope remained.