[1000] First time writer – brutally honest feedback needed on my opening scene

Hi Reddit, I've never shared my writing publicly before. I'm working on a dark thriller novel set in Scotland and this is my opening scene. I want completely honest feedback, not encouragement, actual critique. Tell me what doesn't work, what pulls you out of it, what feels false. The novel is a dark thriller following a morally complex Scottish father during a period of societal collapse. This is chapter one. You know nothing else going in, same as any reader would. The cabin smelled of damp pine and woodsmoke that had soaked into the logs years ago—musty, close, the way old timber holds winter even when the stove's been fed. March in Lanarkshire had stayed raw, hovering around 4–8°C outside, wind clawing at the single-pane window like it knew something they didn't. Inside, the air was heavy, warmed just enough by the low fire to keep the chill from settling in the bones. The stove's mica window glowed dull orange, casting uneven light across the rough walls and the scarred pine table between them. Martin sat on the low stool, elbows on his knees, chipped tumbler in both hands. The whisky was the last of the bottle he'd grabbed from the kitchen cupboard before leaving—nothing special, just the burn he needed tonight. Fiona sat opposite on the edge of the narrow cot, wrists unbound now (he'd cut the ties three days earlier when her attempts at the door had turned half-hearted), ankles free. She held her glass without drinking, fingers loose around it, like she was holding something fragile that might break if she gripped too hard. Her hair was lank, tied back roughly with one of his spare elastics. The yellowing bruises on her wrists caught the firelight when she moved. He stared at the glass. The amber caught the glow, shifted. The decision had settled in him yesterday like cold concrete—no longer hot rage, just the weight of what had to happen. The twins had broken something in his house: Sophie flinching every time a door slammed, Kayla hiding food under her plate so she wouldn't have to finish it, Jamie's sheets soaked again at four in the morning. Fiona had stood in the playground and laughed when he'd tried to talk about it—called it normal, kids' stuff. That laugh had echoed in his head until it drowned out everything else. So he'd watched, planned, taken her here. Two weeks of double life: home to feed the kids, kiss Samantha goodbye as he said he was heading out for supplies again, then back to the cabin—the one they'd bought with the money from selling those collie puppies last year, their quiet spot no one else had ever set foot in—to check on the woman he'd locked away. Tonight it ended. He lifted the glass. The whisky hit sharp—smoke and bite, heat that steadied his hands. He swallowed once, eyes fixed on the table. Fiona watched him. She hadn't touched her drink. Her breathing was even, but her eyes were sharp. He set the glass down. The clink was small, deliberate. Fiona spoke first, voice low but steady. "You're really going to do it." Martin didn't answer. He reached into his jacket pocket slowly—no sudden moves—and pulled out the folding knife. Laid it on the table beside the glass. Not a threat. A choice. She looked at it, then at him. "You've talked to me about Sophie flinching at loud noises. About Kayla pretending she's not hungry. About Jamie crying in his sleep. You've fed me. You've asked if I'm cold. If you're going to kill me, at least own that you're choosing it over them knowing what their dad became." His jaw worked. "Don't." She leaned forward an inch. "Samantha's probably checking the door every five minutes, thinking you're still out hunting for tinned stuff before the shops run dry again. She'll call soon. What happens when you don't answer?" He stood abruptly. The stool scraped back. Fiona didn't move. Her eyes followed him as he crossed the three steps to the door. He reached out, fingers closing on the bolt. Metal cold under his palm. He slid it halfway—click—then paused. The wind outside howled once, sharp. His phone buzzed in his pocket. Hard, insistent. Then the siren started—shrill, rising, the UK emergency tone that punched through denim and silence alike, looping for ten seconds like a mechanical scream designed to wake the dead. He pulled it out. Screen lit his face blue-white. EMERGENCY ALERT UK GOVERNMENT – IMMEDIATE THREAT TO LIFE Multiple missile launches detected. Seek immediate shelter. Do not travel. Stay indoors. Further information to follow. This is not a test. The siren cut off. Silence rushed back in. Martin stared at the words. Thumb hovered over dismiss, but didn't touch it. Fiona's voice, quiet: "Martin. What is it?" He didn't speak. Just stood there, hand still on the half-drawn bolt, phone glowing, face changed—not empty anymore, but something raw and open. The stove popped. Wind rattled the window. He eased the bolt back—slow, deliberate—then turned. Walked the three steps back. Sat down again. He turned the phone toward her so she could read it. The knife stayed where it was. Neither of them spoke for a long time. Specific questions for reviewers: does the opening hook you or lose you? Is Martin's internal justification believable or does it feel like excuse making? Does Fiona feel like a real person or a device? Does the emergency alert feel earned or contrived? Would you turn the page? Be brutal. First time writer and I can take it.