Sarcus sat quietly in his chair. Though he was nearly motionless on the exterior, internal pressure was starting to build. Anxiety, fear, despair, and rage were swirling together, feeding off of one another and growing. As time passed, he grew more restless. He started tapping his foot on the ground. At first it was a bit subtle, but eventually it built to him nearly slamming his foot on the ground over and over as he heaved for breath. A crash and a roar from some other part of the building jolted him out of his frenetic reverie. He realized what he had been doing, and stopped. He couldn't show them signs of weakness like that; the Church surely had experienced interrogators. He became motionless once more.
This was broken a few moments later as he thought of something. He started rubbing the ropes chafing at his wrists against the chair. It would be slow, and likely painful at some point, but maybe he could wear down the ropes to the point where he could break them. Sarcus, while fairly tall, wasn't particularly strong, so this plan would take a while. After deciding to carry his idea out, he shouted at the door again. "I know what you're trying to do. It won't work. I don't know anything relevant to the Church, and I sure as hell wouldn't tell you if I did." He knew that saying things like that wouldn't help his situation -if one believed most fiction, it would probably encourage them- but the all-too-familiar red haze was beginning to descend.