Chapter 1: The Interrogation Begins

The weather was getting colder and colder—this was late October in its truest form in Cleveland. Daniel McAllister exhaled a cloud of white breath, pulled his battered Browns jacket tighter, and headed toward the precinct, the memory of last night’s Cavs game still lingering in the city’s air.

A biting wind whipped down Euclid Avenue, rattling the last stubborn leaves off the maples. Daniel hunched his shoulders, the familiar chill of Lake Erie slicing right through his jacket. His boots crunched over salt-dusted pavement, and he passed a bundled-up barista flipping the sign at the corner Starbucks from CLOSED to OPEN. As he walked by, he caught a snippet of her greeting to a coworker—"Gonna need triple espresso to survive today!" The city was waking up, but Daniel’s mind was already racing ahead to the interrogation waiting for him.

Today was an important day—at least, that’s how it felt to Daniel. According to several sources, "Tristar" was about to make contact.

He could feel the tension coiled in his chest, the way it always did before a big break. He’d been chasing shadows for months, and now it felt like all the puzzle pieces were finally snapping into place, like a knot tightening. He replayed the rumors in his head: coded messages, strange patterns, whispers in chatrooms and on the street. Today might be the day something finally gave way.

"Tristar" was a mysterious organization they had only recently uncovered. Rumor had it the group had been around for ages, but no one knew its true nature or purpose. After painstaking investigation, they had managed to apprehend a Tristar liaison known as "Old Quinn." Old Quinn was a stubborn, tight-lipped man in his forties or fifties, with a face that looked like it had spent a lifetime in Cleveland’s dive bars. No matter how hard they pressed him, he refused to say a word. The higher-ups issued a special order: Daniel McAllister, the department’s top investigator, was to conduct a surprise interrogation.

Even the captain had pulled Daniel aside that morning, his voice low and urgent: "We need answers, Danny. If anyone can get through to this guy, it’s you." The captain gave Daniel a reassuring squeeze on the shoulder, eyes locking for a moment before Daniel made his way through the buzzing precinct, nodding to familiar faces—officers sipping burnt coffee, a donut box open on a desk, the janitor whistling an old Springsteen tune. Daniel’s own hands were steady, but his mind was sharp with anticipation. The faint aroma of scorched coffee and the distant strains of "Born to Run" made him feel like he was in the heart of a classic American cop show.

After handing off some files to his colleagues, Daniel entered the interrogation room alone. Old Quinn, handcuffed, sat across from him looking exhausted, as if he hadn’t slept all night.

The harsh fluorescent lights made Old Quinn’s skin look gray, and the metal table between them was colder than a Cleveland sidewalk in January. The room was freezing, the air tinged with a metallic tang and the stale scent of cigarette smoke lingering from the night before—a smell that clung no matter how often they scrubbed these rooms.

Probably worn out from last night’s questioning, Daniel thought. He flexed his fingers under the table—a nervous habit he’d picked up during his first big case, when his mentor taught him, "With tough guys like this, you gotta throw a curveball, not just fastballs."

He’d seen men like Quinn before—the ones who could sit for hours, stone-faced, as if the world outside had nothing to do with them. Daniel took a slow breath, remembering his training: don’t let them see you sweat.

"Want a smoke?" Daniel offered, flicking open a pack of Marlboros.

He knew sometimes the smallest gesture could crack a suspect’s armor. Cigarettes were still contraband in the station, but sometimes you had to bend the rules to get the truth.

"Sure." Old Quinn nodded.

His voice was rough, but there was a flicker of gratitude in his eyes—a tiny crack in the ice.

Daniel lit it for him. "Cold out there?"

He leaned in, flicking the lighter with practiced ease, the flame briefly illuminating the deep lines etched on Quinn’s face.

"Pretty cold."

Old Quinn’s hands shook just a little as he took the first drag. Daniel noticed but didn’t comment.

"You care about the weather?"

"Nothing, just making conversation." Old Quinn slowly exhaled a plume of smoke. "It’ll only get colder from here on."

The smoke curled toward the ceiling, drifting lazily. Daniel watched it, thinking how in Cleveland, folks measured the seasons by how quickly their breath turned to fog, and how soon the lake would freeze.

"Of course, it’s winter." Daniel flipped through the file. "Let’s cut to the chase. Old Quinn, real name Robert Quinn, age forty-nine. Graduated in 1985 from Lake Erie Institute of Technology, meteorology expert, former associate senior at the city’s weather bureau. Left the public sector in 2001, joined a private lab. Intel says you joined 'Tristar' that same year. Is that correct?"

He made a show of reading the file, but he’d already memorized every detail. The crisp pages rustled in the quiet room, punctuating his words.

"Correct." Old Quinn nodded, calm as ever.

No hesitation, no twitch. Daniel marked that down mentally. The man was either telling the truth or a practiced liar.

"Good. Then tell me: Who leads 'Tristar'? What’s your organization’s purpose?"

Daniel leaned forward, voice low and steady, letting the weight of the question hang in the air. He wanted Quinn to feel the pressure, to know there was no easy way out.

Old Quinn flicked his ash. "I know you don’t have any real info on 'Tristar,' but don’t expect to get anything from me."

He stared straight ahead, his tone almost dismissive. Daniel could see the walls going up again.

Daniel smiled slightly. "Old Quinn, I suggest you recognize your situation. Even if we don’t know much about 'Tristar,' we have solid evidence you’re involved in illegal sabotage. Whether you confess or not, I can still charge you with endangering public safety."

He spoke with the easy confidence of someone who’d played this game before. There was a faint echo of the law-and-order TV shows Daniel had grown up watching, but this was real—the stakes higher than any script.

"This is about the safety of all humanity. My personal honor or disgrace means nothing." Old Quinn replied quietly.

The words hung between them, heavy and strange. Daniel caught a flicker of conviction in Quinn’s eyes—a look he’d seen in true believers before, the ones who thought they were fighting for something bigger than themselves.

Daniel let out a sharp, biting laugh. "In all my years, you’re the first suspect I’ve seen so self-righteous. People like you always try to make your crimes sound noble, don’t you? Like those extremists who think they’re saving the world with a bomb?"

He tapped the table for emphasis, the sound sharp in the stillness. He wanted to rattle Quinn, push him off his script.

"Don’t compare us to them!" Old Quinn snapped, his tone suddenly defensive, like a man whose pride had been wounded. "Our philosophy is nothing like theirs!"

The outburst surprised Daniel—there was real heat in Quinn’s voice, something almost desperate. Daniel filed it away. Sometimes the truth leaked out in anger.

"Everyone says that," Daniel shrugged. "Who ever admits their own wrongdoing?"

He leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, projecting casual disbelief. He’d heard every excuse in the book.

"I have nothing more to say to you, officer." Old Quinn stubbed out his cigarette, leaned back, and closed his eyes. "I want to rest."

The finality in his tone was unmistakable. Daniel sat for a moment longer, studying the man’s closed-off posture, then gathered his files and left, the heavy door clicking shut behind him.