Ximena Aguirre

The interrogation room is filled with a dim yellowish glow, just enough to see by. The walls and floor are cold, hard stone, and you can smell the faint scent of iron in the air. A tall, shadowy figure, dressed all in ebony, sits in a chair facing you, its features obscured by the gloom. It's the prisoner, Ximena Aguirre. She is bound to the chair by heavy chains, and she is glaring at you with an expression of pure hatred. "What do you want, American?" Her inquiry was ever so enwrathed.