The scene was a memory, sharp and sterile.
A younger Julian sat in an interrogation room, the same kind he now worked in, but he was the one in the hot seat. Morning light cut through the window. He had earpods in, a thin wire snaking down his shirt. Across the metal table, a man sat with his legs casually kicked up, his boots leaving scuffs on the surface.
Outside the room, standing behind the one-way glass, a younger Alina watched him. Her voice came through the earpod, sharp and tinny.
"Ask him to remove his legs."
Julian nodded to himself, a small, nervous gesture. "Please remove your feet from the tab—"
"I won't," the man said, his voice loud and bored.
Julian blinked. "Sorry, what?"
The man raised his brow, a look of utter contempt on his face. "Are you fucking deaf, you fucking pig?"
Julian just stared. He tried to compose himself, to follow his training. "Excuse m—"
The man exploded. He slammed his hands flat on the table, simultaneously dropping his legs, the sound a sharp _crack_ in the small room. He leaned forward until their faces were inches apart.
"You weak degenerate motherfucker!" he shouted, spittle flying. "Who selected you for this fucking training program?!"
Julian instinctively leaned back, his chair scraping, trying to escape the man's shouts.
"Let me tell you something," the man snarled, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial, venomous tone. "Your mom didn't want you. She probably wishes I raped her."
Julian's mouth went dry. The man's voice seemed to echo, buzzing in his earbuds.
"She could have had a better son."
Julian leaned back further, and as he did, a figure seemed to form in the empty space beside him. A distorted, shifting shape. It was Alina. Or rather, a version of her, a phantom born from his own rage. This phantom Alina leaned down, her face level with his, and whispered in his ear, her voice a sibilant hiss that was nothing like the tinny sound from the earpod.
"Look what he is saying," the phantom whispered. "He insulted your mother. Kick him."
Outside the glass, the _real_ Alina watched, biting her nail.
Julian closed his eyes, shutting it all out—the man's voice, the buzzing in his ear, the hot, angry whisper of the ghost in his head. The slurs and shouts became a distant, inaudible drone.
But the distorted figure of Alina persisted, her voice insistent. "Hit him."
Outside, the real Alina saw him clench his fists. She saw the change, the micro-second of decision. She mouthed the word, a silent, urgent command: "Don't."
Julian opened his eyes. They were filled with a sudden, cold clarity.
He calmly, almost lazily, lifted one of his own legs and placed his foot on the table. Then, he lifted the other, crossing them at the ankles, planting his boots firmly on the metal surface, right under the man's shocked face.
The man, who had been gearing up for another shout, stopped. His mouth hung open. Then, slowly, his lips curved into a wide, appreciative smile.
He leaned back and turned his head toward the one-way glass. "This kid's good," he yelled. "I want him, Alina."
On the other side of the glass, Alina let out her breath and laughed.
Julian looked at the glass, his gaze locking onto the exact portion of the mirror where he knew she was standing. And through the reflective surface, her eyes met his.