Chapter 16
GLASS
The room was smaller than I had imagined.
Not physically.
Psychologically.
A table.
Two chairs.
A wall with one-way glass that looked too clean to be just a wall.
In rooms like this there is always the feeling that the air is rationed.
“Sit down,” the man opposite said calmly.
Without the intonation of an order.
Without formal distance.
That is precisely what makes a person alert.
I sat down, placed my hands on the table.
Palms open.
Fingers still.
An open posture is the oldest trick in the world.
People trust what hides nothing.
“This is a routine conversation,” he continued, leafing through a folder. “We are simply clarifying a few things.”
He said it while looking not at me, but at the paper.
A good method.
When a person is not the centre of attention, he makes mistakes more often.
“About what exactly?” I asked.
“About your acquaintance with a woman.”
Pause.
Not because a reaction needed to be awaited.
Because a pause makes the other person speak.
“How often do you meet women?” he asked as if he were interested in the weather.
“It isn’t a crime,” I replied.
“No,” he agreed. “But sometimes it is context.”
He lifted his eyes.
Not for long.
Just enough to see whether my pulse changed.
It did not.
“When did you last see Antra?”
The word settled in the room like dust.
Slowly.
Inevitably.
“I don’t remember precisely,” I said. “It was a long time ago.”
“‘A long time ago’ can mean very different things.”
“Then let it stay at that.”
He wrote something in the folder.
Not quickly.
Not demonstratively.
Writing is often not intended for information.
It is intended for rhythm.
“What was your relationship?”
“Acquaintance.”
“Intimacy?”
“Are you asking professionally or personally?”
He did not laugh.
A good professional never laughs.
“Professionally,” he replied.
“Then the answer does not change.”
He lowered his head slightly.
It was not a gesture.
It was a measurement.
“You know,” he said, “that people who tell the truth rarely use such precisely polished phrases.”
“And people who lie usually talk too much,” I replied.
This time he smiled.
Not with his lips.
With his gaze.
“You navigate conversations well.”
“It is a side effect of the profession.”
“What profession?”
“Living among people.”
He wrote another line.
Then closed the folder.
“That will be enough for now.”
It was not said as relief.
It was said as postponement.
When the door closed behind me, I felt a faint warmth in my chest.
Not tension.
Clarity.
Rooms like this do one thing very precisely:
they divide people into two categories.
Those who want it to end.
And those who understand that the game has just begun.
I belonged to the second.
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© 2026 Vito Vilks