Victor Martel didn’t pace when they brought him in.

He just sat. Smooth as ever. Expensive suit, fresh shave, not a single thread out of place. If you didn’t know better, you’d think he was here to offer a campaign donation, not answer for a string of disappearances tied to his private server and personal fixer.

Amara sat across from him, hands folded. Darryl leaned on the wall, watching. Waiting.

Martel smiled, barely. “So. Which of you wants to go first?”

Amara’s tone stayed flat. “Let’s start simple. Do you know Bianca Payne?”

A pause. Just long enough to register.

“I’ve heard the name.”

“Funny,” Darryl said, pushing a folder toward him, “because your burner accounts forwarded GPS logs to someone who was staking out her gallery for three days. We’ve got timestamps. Facial ID.”

Still, Martel kept calm. “I delegate. I’m sure whoever was watching her had a reason. I can’t speak to the details.”

“Can’t,” Amara echoed, “or won’t?”

Martel met her gaze. “The city’s full of eyes. Not all of them mine.”

Darryl tapped the table. Once. Hard.

“You laundered contracts through two dummy nonprofits. You bankrolled Cortez. You signed off on a surveillance operation that ended in six dead women, one survivor, and a house of horrors under your payroll. Don’t act surprised.”

Martel stayed quiet. But the smile cracked, just a little.

Amara dropped the last photo. Bianca after the rescue. Wrapped in a blanket. Eyes red. Mouth set like stone.

“She remembered everything,” Amara said. “And she’s talking.”

That landed.

Martel shifted.

A flicker of real tension.

And just like that—the room changed.