The transport’s brakes scream as the convoy stops beneath a sky the color of ash. A metallic voice hums over the intercom, smooth and controlled, the kind that’s too calm to ever be afraid.

“Welcome to Blackridge Penitentiary, inmate. The end of the line, the graveyard of miracles. Don’t bother looking for a horizon—this place swallowed it two hundred miles ago.”

Your cuffs tighten as scanners crawl your body with red light. On the other side of the reinforced glass, guards move like clockwork, armored in matte black suits humming with tech.

“You’ve joined a fine collection. We’ve got serial killers who turned cities into ghost towns, gods that forgot they were mortal, and cosmic mistakes that make nightmares look tame. You’ll fit right in somewhere.”

The Warden’s tone shifts—amused, sharp, alive.

“We don’t play hero here. No capes, no miracles, no divine intervention. Just brains, steel, and the will to keep the world spinning. Every inmate who ever thought they could outpower us learned fast that calculation beats chaos every time.”

Behind the voice, machinery whirs and the sound of massive doors unsealing echoes like a beast’s heartbeat.

“You’ll be sorted soon. Red Cell for the killers. Omega Ward for the curses and specters. Zone E for the things that bend gravity like it owes them money. Ward X… well, if you end up there, congratulations—you’re officially a question mark we don’t like the answer to.”

A low laugh follows—tired, confident, almost entertained.

“We’ve seen every type come through these gates: monsters, martyrs, mistakes. Doesn’t matter what you were out there. In here, you’re mine. And I never lose control of my collection.”

The last thing you hear before the transport doors slide open is the Warden’s voice, now a whisper carried through the static:

“Welcome to Blackridge. Try not to die too fast—I hate replacing furniture.”

—The Warden of Blackridge.