Reincarnated with a Country Creation System

The interrogators shifted their tactics to darker, more intense methods. Each operative was prepared for the possibility of torture, but Taylor's team was meticulously trained to find every possible weakness. They knew that patience and a gradual escalation would break even the most resilient spies.

In the room with Major Grau, the interrogator set a metal rod onto the table, deliberately letting it clink against the surface. Slowly, he produced a small blowtorch, igniting it with a single flick of his lighter. The blue flame danced in his hand as he held the rod close, letting it heat up gradually.

He didn't speak, didn't look directly at Grau, allowing the silence and the searing heat of the flame to fill the room.

Grau kept his gaze steady, his eyes focused somewhere beyond his captor's shoulder, but a bead of sweat began to form on his brow.

"You're holding back," the interrogator finally spoke, his tone calm but laced with menace. "You think you can wait us out. But we've been at this for years, and I assure you, everyone has a breaking point."

Without warning, he pressed the rod against the metal table, producing a sharp hiss and a burst of steam. He was methodical, trying to heighten Grau's tension, letting his mind imagine the worst before anything touched him.

In Lind's room, the interrogator took a different approach. She was fastened to her chair, wrists bound just enough to limit her movement without cutting off circulation. A small speaker had been brought in, playing a high-pitched frequency that barely registered in her hearing but grated against her nerves, unrelenting. Over time, it would fray her focus, disrupt her carefully practiced resistance.

Lind clenched her jaw, trying to ignore the sound, but the continuous whine was enough to make even the strongest operatives start to lose control.

"You're wasting your energy," the interrogator said, sitting across from her, watching for her reaction to the sound. "All of this silence, all of this resistance—it's only a matter of time before you give in."

Lind closed her eyes, attempting to block out the noise, but he leaned forward, his voice a low murmur that cut through the sound. "You know, it doesn't have to be like this. Just tell us who you're working for, and we'll end this charade."

She opened her eyes, meeting his with an unwavering stare. "You're going to have to try a lot harder than that."

In Hoffmann's room, the interrogator took an even darker route. Hoffmann was stripped of his jacket, his shirt soaked with water to intensify the chill that radiated through the room. His wrists were bound behind him, and ice packs were strapped to the back of his neck and his wrists, slowing his blood flow and creating an unbearable cold that penetrated to his core.

Hoffmann was shivering, but he clenched his jaw, refusing to let it weaken his resolve.

"Shivering already?" his interrogator sneered. "We've barely started. Imagine what the next few hours will feel like."

Hoffmann forced himself to remain steady, but the ice gnawed at his endurance. His captor continued, never breaking his stare. "The longer you hold out, the colder it'll get. Just tell us what you're here for, and I'll make it stop."

Hoffmann exhaled slowly, his breath visible in the frigid air. He didn't respond, though he could feel the numbness creeping through his limbs.

In the control room, Taylor observed each room, noting their reactions. Each of his interrogators worked with precision, adjusting their approach based on each captive's response—or lack thereof.

"They're good," Taylor muttered to his aide, his eyes narrowed. "They've been trained to resist physical and psychological strain. But everyone breaks. Increase the duration of each session. Double the sensory overload."

His aide nodded, relaying the instructions to the team.

The intensity in each room escalated with Taylor's new orders, designed to erode each agent's mental defenses by introducing continuous, unpredictable torment.

In Grau's room, the interrogator switched off the blowtorch and approached him with a tray of implements. Each item was chosen for its psychological effect as much as its physical one: needles, clamps, and small electric wires, laid out methodically in Grau's line of sight.

His captor was a master of pacing, maintaining an air of detached cruelty, which subtly hinted that he could keep going indefinitely.

"Tell me," the interrogator said, almost conversationally as he picked up a small needle and tapped it against the edge of the table, "have you ever experienced electrical nerve stimulation? Pain without even a single mark left behind?"

Grau didn't respond, keeping his focus on a spot on the wall as he took slow, measured breaths. He was trained to center himself, to detach from his surroundings, but the interrogator noticed the faintest twitch in Grau's hand as the needle was pressed into his arm just enough to break the skin.

The sensation was subtle, nearly insignificant, but it was enough to prime his nerves for the next level of pain.

The interrogator flicked a switch on a small device, and a low electric current began to pulse through the needle, causing Grau's arm to tighten involuntarily. The pain was unlike anything Grau had felt before—sharp, precise, and oddly rhythmical, tearing through his resolve with every pulse. Despite himself, his muscles tensed, and his breaths quickened, though he held in any sound of pain.

Outside the room, Taylor observed, noting every microexpression, every involuntary twitch. He could see the small signs that Grau's defenses were beginning to falter. This wasn't just physical resilience; this was a test of his psychological endurance.

In the next room, Lieutenant Lind's situation had intensified. The interrogator switched off the high-pitched noise only to bring in another form of sensory overload. He placed a pair of headphones over her ears, then left her alone for minutes on end with silence—a tactic to lower her guard, making the inevitable sounds all the more jarring.

She closed her eyes, focusing inward, reminding herself of her training, knowing that unpredictability was a weapon as powerful as pain. She couldn't brace herself for the barrage of sounds: sudden, harsh, and random bursts of gunfire, heavy machinery, and the sound of distant screams filled her ears at disorienting intervals, designed to fracture her focus and evoke paranoia.

When the interrogator returned, he leaned close, speaking directly into the headset microphone so his voice sounded unbearably loud in her ears. "You may think your silence protects you. But there are others, right? Do you think they'll hold out as long as you?"

Lind forced herself to remain outwardly impassive, but his words pried at her resolve, creating a crack. Her breathing grew shallow as she clenched her fists under the table, willing herself to block out the invasive sounds.

The interrogator switched the sound abruptly to something softer—a lullaby, one that contrasted with the violence of the previous sounds and created an odd sense of vulnerability. Lind's heartbeat quickened despite her best efforts to calm herself, the song dredging up memories she'd been trained to suppress.

She forced herself to shut it out, grounding herself in the present, but her captor leaned in closer, his presence unsettlingly near.

"It's only a matter of time," he murmured. "Eventually, you'll slip. They always do."

In the third room, Hoffmann's suffering had increased. The temperature had dropped further, and his breathing grew labored as the ice packs around his body burned into his skin with a relentless ache. His interrogator watched him carefully, reading every expression, every tremor. Hoffmann's training had been thorough, but even the strongest mind was subject to the body's breaking points.

The interrogator moved forward, placing a hand on Hoffmann's shoulder with feigned gentleness, only to tighten his grip hard enough to dig into the cold-sensitive flesh.

"You know, the moment you start talking, this will end," he said, his tone patronizing. "This can all be over. We can even get you warmed up if you give us what we need."

Hoffmann's teeth chattered, and he forced himself to breathe through the stabbing pains that shot up his arms and back. He looked up, his gaze steely. "You're going to have to do better than this."

The interrogator's smile faded, and he gave a subtle nod. He pulled out a small cloth from his pocket and placed it over Hoffmann's mouth and nose, pouring water onto it just enough to make him struggle for air without fully suffocating.

The cold was relentless, but now the added panic of limited breathing crept in, forcing Hoffmann's body into survival mode as his mind frantically fought to remain calm.

After a prolonged minute, the interrogator removed the cloth, watching as Hoffmann gasped, his face pale and lips nearly blue. He leaned in close. "I admire your stamina. But no one can go on like this forever."

Taylor, still monitoring from the control room, noted with satisfaction how each agent's facade was beginning to show the slightest signs of strain. He gestured to his aide. "Bring them to the edge. Give them just enough hope to think they can withstand it, then push harder. Our goal is complete psychological fracture."

The aide nodded, relaying the order, and within minutes, the interrogators escalated their tactics.

In Grau's room, his interrogator removed the needle, allowing his arm a moment's relief, but quickly introduced another layer of sensory discomfort—a steady stream of cold water poured onto the floor, dampening his clothes and chilling him as the interrogation continued.

The cold seeped into Grau's bones, combining with his exhaustion to create a creeping sense of hopelessness, which his captor exploited mercilessly.

"You're only making this harder on yourself," the interrogator said, his voice almost bored. "You have nothing to gain from resisting. Just tell me why you're here."

Grau bit back a retort, breathing slowly as he mentally counted each heartbeat, clinging to every second to retain control. His silence was his only power, and he would not relinquish it.

In Lind's room, the interrogator changed tactics again, releasing her bindings but dimming the lights to near-darkness, allowing shadows to fill the room. She couldn't see her captor, only the faintest outline of his shape as he spoke, his voice disembodied.

"Imagine it, alone in a foreign land with no way out," he whispered, his words chilling in the darkness. "Your silence won't save you, and your allies have likely already abandoned you. All you have left is a choice—freedom, or unending darkness."

The darkness played tricks on her mind, her fatigue mixing with paranoia as the void around her seemed to expand. She knew it was a ploy, but it gnawed at her, unsettling her as she strained her senses to track any movement in the near-pitch blackness. She clutched her hands together, refusing to let her mind falter, reminding herself that her silence was her strength.

In Hoffmann's room, the interrogator intensified the cold treatment, removing the ice packs only to drench him again in freezing water, chilling him anew. His body was in shock, shivering violently as he fought to retain any semblance of control. Every shiver, every small gasp, was a win for his captor, who studied him with clinical interest.

"Tell us, and you'll be spared this," the interrogator said, his tone almost gentle. "Why suffer so much? Just one word, and it ends."

Hoffmann's voice came out in a shaky whisper, barely audible through his chattering teeth. "You… think… this is enough… to break me?"

The interrogator watched him for a moment, his eyes narrowed, then smirked. "We'll see how much longer that defiance lasts."

In the control room, Taylor's satisfaction grew. They were close; he could feel it. While none of the captives had cracked fully, he could see that each one was reaching the edges of their limits. It was only a matter of time, and he was nothing if not patient.