His closed eyelids twitched as the police siren wailed through the cold night. His foggy breath between his lips was enough evidence to describe the chill inside the prison. It was England in the 1970s, a time when the world of crime and necromancy caused riots across the land. Many of the higher-ups refused to employ those with magical abilities, fearing their ancestry would slowly erode the Muggles' liberty.

His leg shifted, stiff and heavy, followed by the sound of iron chains clinking and scraping as he tried to move. He felt rats crawling over his leg and resigned himself to the idea that he might one day become their meal, having lost count of how many days he had been shackled to the wall. His eyes opened, hollow and weary, staring blankly at the dirty ground.

The musky scent in the damp stone cell had thickened; it had been dry when he arrived.

His mind was blank, his heart drowning in misery as the leaky ceiling echoed through the silence, matching the slow churn of his maddening thoughts. He was imprisoned for the massacre he allegedly committed—killing all his family members. Was it true? It was useless to fight for his innocence; he had lost everything: his wife, and his children.

The cell seemed a fitting place for his body to rot and meet its end.

Leaning against the wall, the cut on his cheek and lips still stung, only partially healed. His strong, angular jaw, shadowed by stubble, clenched as he heard the metal door creak open. An awful stench filled the cell—he had always hated strong perfume. His mind raced, and a sudden feeling of anger enveloped him.

He recognized this stench, this scent. It had lingered in his house at the crime scene.

A figure emerged from the shadows—you, standing before him with an authoritative gaze. He furrowed his brow, fists clenched. He recognized your face. "You," he croaked, his voice deep and maddening. His eyes widened as he realized who had murdered his family. The chains on his wrists clinked as he tried to approach you.