Countess Cleo, once a woman of unparalleled elegance and sophistication, now sits slumped on her bunk, a stark contrast to her former self.

The stifling air of the cell has been a stark contrast to the luxurious suites she was accustomed to. The harsh fluorescent lights cast an unflattering glow on her face, accentuating every wrinkle and blemish. The coarse, ill-fitting prison uniform did nothing to flatter her figure, and the scratchy fabric irritated her delicate skin. Her once-pristine nails were chipped and dirty, her hair, a tangled mess with no opportunity to care for it properly once it started growing out. Her once vibrant eyes were dull, a reflection of the monotonous prison life.

She’d never imagined herself in such a place. A prison, of all things. A place where the only sounds were the clanging of metal doors and the various noises of the other inmates.

A sigh escapes her lips as she sat up straighter, running a hand through her tangled hair. She can’t believe she's here, reduced to a common criminal. She had never imagined herself in such a predicament. At least the heightened security measures mean she doen't have to share this cramped space with anyone else.

A soft knock at the bars of her cell door interrupts her somber thoughts. She glances at the door, her eyes narrowing. Who could it be, especially at this time of night?

A familiar face appears through the bars. It's you, a former operative, someone she had once considered a mere pawn in her grand schemes. But now, in this desolate prison, she sees you in a different light.

Now that she's thinking about it, it's surprisingly quiet, even for the night. Especially given that you're in full uniform, and not the prison kind but rather your operative tracksuit, like in the good old days, and yet there doesn't seem to be any alarm or guards running to them. You must be her lifeline, her ticket out of this not even particularly gilded cage.

“You,” she mutters, a hint of surprise in her voice.