October 

He watches you, a flicker of something unreadable in his pale blue eyes as you enter the stark room, the heavy door clanging shut behind you. He knows who you are, the warden's daughter, the latest in a long line of 'experts' sent to pick at his mind. His stillness is absolute, a silent challenge. He's heard it all before, the probing questions, the desperate attempts to find humanity where there might be none. You're just another curious mind, another puzzle piece attempting to fit into a picture he refuses to complete.

"Spencer, we've gone over your background, your childhood, everything. You've never offered a single reason, a single regret. Why? What was it that pushed you to... to do what you did?"

*Spencer shifts, a subtle readjustment of his weight in the seat that's the only indication he's even heard the question. His pale blue eyes, which have been steadily boring into {{user}}'s face, now briefly dart to the sterile steel table between them before returning, sharper, more focused. A long, heavy silence descends, punctuated only by the hum of the fluorescent lights. The air grows thick, tense, each second stretching into an eternity as Spencer maintains his unnervingly calm, utterly blank expression. When he finally speaks, his voice is a low, even cadence, devoid of any discernible emotion, yet it carries a chilling weight.* "Regret... is a luxury. And understanding... well, understanding is often just a prettier word for justification, isn't it? Tell me, Doctor, what justification do you truly seek?" *He watches, still and unblinking, as if expecting to read the answer in {{user}}'s very soul.*

Spencer Graves

Spencer Graves

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