Reincarnated with a Country Creation System

The truck door swung open, and icy air flooded the cramped space. Johannes was hauled to his feet, his briefcase still nowhere in sight. He was dragged out into the courtyard of a decrepit building, the once-proud Ruthenian architecture now cracked and crumbling under the weight of neglect and decay.

"So this is where you plan on holding me," Johannes said calmly.

The officer grunted in response, his grip on Johannes's arm tightening as he dragged him toward the imposing iron doors.

"You won't be here long. The state police have a special interest in foreign agitators like you."

The heavy doors creaked open, revealing a dimly lit corridor lined with cold, damp stone. The air was thick with the acrid stench of mildew and despair. Each step Johannes took echoed ominously, a grim reminder of the many before him who had likely walked these halls never to emerge.

Two guards flanked him as they moved deeper into the prison, their boots clanging against the steel grates on the floor. The officer led the way, his posture rigid with authority.

"You'll find our hospitality memorable," he sneered, glancing over his shoulder. "The state police will ensure you don't feel neglected."

Johannes remained silent, his face impassive. His mind, however, was racing. Every detail of the prison—the number of guards, their movements, the weight of the handcuffs—was cataloged and analyzed. Survival depended on preparation, and preparation meant noticing everything.

They reached a heavy steel door marked with faded Cyrillic letters. The officer stopped, pulling a rusted key from his belt and unlocking the door. It groaned as it swung open, revealing a small, stark interrogation room.

"Sit," the officer commanded, pointing to a rickety wooden chair bolted to the floor in the center of the room.

Johannes complied, lowering himself into the chair without protest. The guards quickly secured his wrists and ankles to the chair with thick leather straps, ensuring he was immobilized. The officer leaned in close, his breath reeking of tobacco and cheap liquor.

"Enjoy the quiet," he said with a smirk. "It won't last."

With that, he gestured for the guards to follow him and exited the room, the door slamming shut behind them. Johannes was left alone in the dim light of a single flickering bulb that cast distorted shadows on the damp walls.

He tilted his head back slightly, letting out a slow, controlled exhale. The room was designed to intimidate—bare concrete walls, a drain in the center of the floor, and a small, high window that let in no light.

The seconds stretched into minutes. Johannes could hear the faint hum of activity outside the room: the shuffle of boots, the occasional murmur of voices. He let his breathing slow, forcing himself to remain calm. Panic was a weapon his captors could use against him, and he refused to give them that advantage.

After what felt like an hour, the door creaked open again. Two men entered, their black uniforms adorned with the insignia of the state police. One was thin and wiry, his face sharp and fox-like. The other was broad-shouldered with a shaved head and an air of quiet menace. They carried a small case between them, its polished surface gleaming under the dim light.

The wiry man set the case on the table and opened it with deliberate precision, revealing an array of instruments that ranged from syringes to pliers.

"Good evening," he said in heavily accented Valorian. "I am Inspector Damien, and this is my associate, Major Yuri. We'll be having a little... conversation tonight."

Johannes raised an eyebrow, his tone dry. "I wasn't aware I needed an appointment."

Damien chuckled softly. "Ah, a sense of humor. How quaint. Let's see how long that lasts."

Yuri stepped forward, his towering frame casting a shadow over Johannes. "You will tell us everything," he rumbled. "Who you work for, who sent you, what you know about the revolutionaries."

Johannes met his gaze unflinchingly. "I'm a journalist. My work is my own. If you want to know about the revolutionaries, read my articles."

Yuri's fist slammed down on the table, the force causing the instruments to rattle. "Enough games! You are no journalist. You are a spy, sent here to undermine the Tsar!"

Damien raised a hand, silencing his associate. "Let us not be hasty, Major. Our guest will talk in time. We have ways of ensuring cooperation."

He selected a syringe from the case, holding it up to the light as he pressed the plunger, expelling a small jet of clear liquid. "This," he said conversationally, "is a truth serum. A little outdated, perhaps, but still effective in loosening the tongue."

Johannes's expression didn't falter. "And if I tell you I have nothing to hide?"

Ivanov smiled thinly. "Then we'll have no need for unpleasantness. But you see, I don't believe you. Your presence here, your timing—it's too convenient. And that briefcase of yours? I suspect it holds secrets far more interesting than press clippings. Speaking of which, it is being brought here. I wonder what it contains."

Johannes's mind remained a fortress as the needle hovered closer. His breathing slowed, every muscle in his body tense but under control. Adapt, anticipate, endure. The words echoed in his mind like a mantra.

"You seem awfully eager to jump to conclusions," Johannes said, his tone calm, almost mocking. "What if that briefcase is just filled with stale sandwiches and a notepad?"

Inspector Damien chuckled darkly. "Oh, I do enjoy this little game of bravado. But we both know you are not a simple journalist. Spies often hide behind such convenient façades. Shall we find out?"

Yuri grabbed Johannes's head, forcing it to one side as Damien approached with the syringe. The needle gleamed under the flickering light, but Johannes kept his expression stoic.

"Your silence will break," Damien said softly. "They all do."

The sharp sting of the needle punctured his neck, and a warm rush followed as the serum entered his bloodstream. Johannes felt a tingling spread through his body, his vision briefly blurring. His thoughts seemed to swirl, but he clung to his discipline, compartmentalizing the discomfort.

Damien's fox-like grin widened as he sat across from Johannes, leaning forward. "Now, let's begin. Who sent you to Ruthenia? Was it the Valorian government?"

Johannes blinked slowly, his voice measured. "I came here alone. No one sent me."

Damien tilted his head, studying him like a predator circling wounded prey. "And the revolutionaries? What did you promise them in exchange for their cooperation?"

"I promised them nothing," Johannes said evenly. "I'm a journalist. They wanted their story told."

The inspector's eyes narrowed, frustration flickering beneath his composed exterior. He nodded to Yuri, who stepped behind Johannes and placed a heavy hand on his shoulder.

"Perhaps you need some encouragement," Damien said.

Yuri's hand clamped down harder, pain radiating through Johannes's arm. Still, Johannes bit back any reaction, refusing to give them the satisfaction.

"You're wasting your time," he said through gritted teeth. "The truth is far less interesting than you think."

Damien stood, pacing the small room. "We'll see. Let's examine this briefcase of yours." At his gesture, a guard entered, carrying Johannes's briefcase. The metal edges were scuffed, but it was otherwise intact.

Placing it on the table, Damien opened it with an air of triumph. His movements slowed as he saw the contents: a collection of notebooks, old maps, and scraps of paper covered in scribbled notes. It appeared every inch the belongings of a wandering journalist.

Damien frowned, flipping through the notebooks. "Where are the secrets? The blueprints? The codes?" He looked up sharply at Johannes, his patience fraying. "This cannot be all."

Johannes allowed himself the faintest smirk. "I told you. I'm a journalist. Maybe you should read some of my work—it's quite riveting."

Yuri growled in frustration, his hand tightening further. "Let me handle him. I'll make him talk."

Damien raised a hand, stopping him. "No. Pain alone won't break him. The serum will take time to work. Until then, perhaps a taste of Ruthenian hospitality will loosen his resolve."

He nodded to the guards, who unfastened Johannes from the chair but kept his wrists bound. They dragged him out of the room, his boots scraping against the cold floor. Damien's voice followed him as he was pulled into the corridor.

"You will talk, Mr. Journalist. Everyone does."

Johannes was shoved into a narrow cell with damp, crumbling walls. The heavy door clanged shut behind him, the sound reverberating through the prison. The faint light from a small, barred window cast long shadows across the room. A bucket in the corner served as the only amenity.

He slumped onto the bench, his mind racing. The truth serum had dulled his senses slightly, but his resolve remained intact. But of course, he doesn't want to live in this place for long, surely his government would do something about this predicament. They'll knew what will happen if he missed the periodic reports.