Will raised his head and looked straight into the eyes hidden beneath the shadow of the Helmet.
His cheeks were swollen like risen dough, his lips split at the corners. The blood seeping from them had half dried into dark red scabs.
His missing front teeth made air whistle through his words, leaving his voice raspier and more slurred than usual. But his gaze never wavered, and his tone held no fear, no flattery, not even anger.
At that moment, Will possessed only an almost unremarkable composure, as though the wounded man sitting in the interrogation chair with his hands and feet bound were not him, but some unrelated bystander.
The interrogator fell silent for a moment. He had seen far too much prey dragged into this chair.
Some went limp the moment they entered, pleading for mercy through tears and snot, spilling everything they knew before the torture even began.
Some blustered to conceal their weakness, starting with threats and curses, only to collapse completely after a few rounds of torture and crawl on the floor like reptiles stripped of their spines.
Others clenched their teeth from the outset, meeting everything with silence and never uttering a single word, even at the end.
But this Mortals was different. He had no feigned toughness, no numbness born of despair, and none of the fanaticism of someone eager to die.
He truly was not afraid.
There was no room for fear in those bloodshot eyes. That surprised the interrogator a little, and even stirred a trace of curiosity.
It was the interest a hunter took in rare prey, bordering on appreciation.
"Why are you so brave?" the interrogator asked. Some of the easy mockery faded from his tone, replaced by a measure of serious scrutiny.
He tilted his head slightly, as