Interrogation room.
Lilac Serval hadn't even gotten a glimpse of Sylvan Cheney's face and had to have someone deliver his clothes to him.
Sylvan Cheney stood by the window, lighting a cigarette.
Yacob Harry hadn't released the evidence yet; it seemed he wasn't bold enough to do so, still hesitating and reluctant.
The second trial naturally yielded nothing.
The light in the interrogation room was dim, heavy with stagnation.
Cold and isolated here, standing by the window, one could only see the endless white fog, no skyscrapers, no vehicles.
Sylvan Cheney's complexion was haggard, a slight bluish stubble poking out from his chin, dark circles under his eyes as deep and endless as the rain outside.
His rigid figure stood in front of the window, his bleak shadow cast on the floor.
In such weather, the mood was always like the persistent rain, endlessly dreary.
The New Year was approaching, and it had been five years since they'd last celebrated it together.
