The door slammed open, breaking the stillness of the sterile room. The technician was shoved inside, still in handcuffs. But he wasn't shaking.
The technician was younger than I expected.
Mid-twenties. Clean-cut. Wore a cheap polo that had the spa's logo stitched over the chest, like that would buy him loyalty points.
Gray stood a comfortable distance away, arms folded, gaze sweeping over the man like a predator assessing prey.
I stepped up to the glass, taking in the dirty fingernails, the faded logo on his work shirt, the cheap watch on his wrist. "So, this is our professional saboteur," I murmured, more to myself than to Cameron.
"He's the one who had physical access to the control room," Cameron said. "And his shift ended minutes before the incident."
"Convenient."
Gray stepped forward, a silent figure of looming danger.
"Name?" Gray asked.
"Marvin," the guy muttered. "But I already told the other dude, I didn't do anything wrong. I just work maintenance—"
