The metal door clicks shut, promptly quieting the howling wind of the blizzard. With a grunt, an old man slides the deadbolt closed. He walks under fluorescent lights, padding through the carpeted hallways until he reaches another door, labelled "interview room", with the words "interrogation" being poorly scribbled out. Inside, a young man sits at a metal table, with an unoccupied seat just across from him.
"Please, have a seat," he gestures to the chair and makes eye contact with the old man.
The old man pulls out the chair and collapses on it, his stiff muscles tensing. He lets out a long sigh.
"What's your name?"
"Doesn't matter to you." The old man grunts.
"Sir, this is an interview." The young man awkwardly sifts through his papers before looking back at the old man. "You have an obligation to answer all questions."
"Obliged by whom?"
The young man waves his arms about the room, "The Dragonslayer Corps."
"Ha!" The old man chuckles, leaning forward on the table, "You think I have an obligation to listen to them?"
The young man clears his throat, "Well, uh, okay then. I'm Jonathan Hensley," he offers out his hand, and the old man roughly grabs it. "Nice to meet you."
"What do you need me for?"
"Missing persons reports."
The old man grunts in acknowledgement, then leaving an awkward silence.
"Twenty-four people have gone missing," Hensley's voice grows dark, "I'm sure you know something about that."
The old man looks away, "What do you think I know? I've been out in the Boreal forest for years. Nobody who knows what they're doing gets lost that far north."
"All of these missing persons reports include details of two things: a heavy blizzard, and the Yukon territory."
Another short pause.
"I'm assuming you know about Yukon-I1…"
"Yes. It has been my mission to slay it for the past year."
"Now then, why do you think there have been so many missing persons reports?"
"Why should I know?" The old man raises his voice, harsh and gruff.
"Let me put it plainly: how many died?"
The old man looks away.
"Sir, you must answer my questions." Hensley takes a breath, "How. Many. Died. We already know you have something to do with it."
"Fine." The old man grunts. "It's not like you can charge me for it."
"Oh?"
"Twelve became dragonslayers. One is still alive."
"What about the other twelve?"
"Died before they made it to me." The old man says bluntly. "Now if you don't want another boy to die, you'll let me go."
"Boy? The latest missing persons report was female."
"Well ain't that something."