The lighting in the interrogation room was somewhat dim, and the atmosphere was always eerily quiet. This was also a psychological tactic: in an extremely silent environment, people were more inclined to make some noise to relax themselves, making it easier for them to reveal the secrets in their hearts.
A Doctor in a white coat sat in the interrogation chair, his hands secured to the armrests. He tilted his head back and looked at the bulb above him. It was an extremely crude, ordinary incandescent bulb. It flickered constantly, its shifting light making the room feel even more oppressive.
"You know? I once suggested that someone replace the faulty bulb in his office, but he told me it was actually a psychological tactic. Unstable lighting stimulated the person being interrogated and made them more anxious."
Schiller's voice echoed through the room. Mark, seated across the railing, looked up at him and asked, "The person you're talking about must have been a professional agent. Who was he? Where was he from? Was he your accomplice?"
"Why do you think he was a professional agent?" Schiller asked in return.
"Answer my question." Mark did not take the bait. He merely repeated the same question over and over, refusing to answer no matter what Schiller asked him.
"It seems you're a professional agent too." Schiller tilted his head, though he still did not return to a normal posture. He simply leaned against the chair back, craned his neck toward the bulb, and continued, "But the reason that person didn't replace the bulb wasn't that bullshit excuse. He just didn't want to spend the money."
The exchange between Schiller and Mark did not go smoothly. The two of them could be said to embody humanity's finest qualities: one was a broken record, and