A door slams. One chair scrapes, carving yet more criss-crosses on the concrete floor. The air is still. The light is dim.
It's not quite the lamp-swinging, good-cop-bad-cop days of old, but it's still an interrogation, thinks Jaisy.
The detective sits across from her - no trench-coat, no fedora, just a clean-cut man in a suit - and leans over to switch on the dictaphone sulking on the table between them.
Jaisy leans back on her chair, moving her hands away from and towards each other again, the chain of the handcuffs tinkling like a wind-chime, even in this timeless, airtight vacuum.
The detective clears his throat, looking uncomfortable all of a sudden. It's understandable, in the circumstances.
"Right, uh... Daisy L-"
"My name... It's not Daisy, it's Jaisy. That's a 'J'." She cocks her head, causing a wisp of hair to fall out of place. The detective gulps. "Did they not tell you that in the report?"
"Jaisy Letterman, then. Now, you know I need to ask you some questions..."
She lets his voice trail off. Was this room designed to be like this? The dingy walls, the unthreatening furniture... It feels like nothing. It feels like judgement. A grey smudge, dividing heaven and hell...
The iron table before her separates Jaisy and the detective.
So which side is she on?