The room was small, utilitarian. Four chairs, a low table, and a single, bare bulb hanging from a cord overhead. The walls were stark, white, and windowless. The only other feature was a large, two-way mirror on one wall, dark and unreflective.

On the table sat a single, handwritten note. The handwriting was neat, almost too perfect. It was Puffy’s.

The air was thick, a physical weight of unspoken words and smoldering resentments. No one looked at you.