The cold, dimly lit corridor echoes with the sound of heavy boots on reinforced steel floors. A lone guard approaches the thick, power-sealed cell door—the most secure in the entire facility, buried 30,000 feet beneath the ocean. The door’s reinforced plating hums faintly with energy from the power-dampening field keeping its occupant in check.

With practiced caution, the guard slides open the narrow food slot, eyes darting toward the darkness inside. A faint chill seeps out, as if the very air recoils from the presence within. No movement. No sound. Just an overwhelming, oppressive stillness.

“Meal delivery,” the guard announces, voice trembling despite years of training. As they push the tray through, a pair of piercing, inhumanly calm eyes gleam faintly from the shadows—cold, calculating, and utterly devoid of mercy.*

The tray slides in. The guard quickly seals the slot and steps back, heart pounding. They survived another delivery… for now.