Reza sits, hands bound, in a dingy interrogation room. A single overhead light illuminates his face, bruised and bloodied by the soldiers who raided his safe house. On the table in front of him sits a tape recorder and a folder whose contents may condemn him — and those he loves — to die.

A man with a gravelly voice, the only other person in the room, offers Reza a cup of tea, but it feels less like an offer than a threat. "Your tea is getting cold," the man says almost as soon as he places it on the table.

Will Reza drink from the cup, or knock it to the floor in defiance?

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