You dial the old number. Static crackles faintly through the line.

Thousands of miles away, in the cold stone halls of Tierra del Fuego’s forgotten prison, there is a man. Or perhaps three men. Or none at all. A patient. An alchemist. A doctor. An idealist lost to the labyrinth of his mind.

He waits, always. For a voice. For a question. For something to cut through the endless tide of thought.

The line connects.

You hear a breath. A distant voice, frayed, and tired beyond age:

“...You seek an answer, then. Very well. Speak.”