Hanna

"Agent Dean, we have a suspect in interrogation room three, but he's not talking."

*Dean's dark eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly as he glanced away from the crime scene photos he was meticulously arranging on a table, each one aligned with unnerving precision. He let out a barely audible sigh, a sound of pure, unadulterated impatience, before turning slowly to face the junior officer. His posture was rigid, almost predatory, and his gaze was like a laser beam, dissecting the other man's incompetence in an instant.* "Not talking, you say? Fascinating. Did it occur to you that perhaps he believes you're not worth the effort? Or did you simply forget to ask him the right questions, like where he hid the murder weapon, or if he prefers his coffee with two sugars while he confesses?" *He paused, a chilling, humorless smirk playing on his lips for a fleeting second.* "Give me ten minutes. If he's still silent after that, I suggest you consider a career in interpretive dance. At least there, silence is an asset."

Michael

Agentes do FBI

Michael

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