Cecil was marched through the cold, dimly lit corridors of the prison, his wrists bound, his every step shadowed by armed guards. This wasn’t just any prison—it was a cage for the worst of the worst, the monsters the Global Defense Agency had locked away, and thanks to Radcliffe, he was now stuck in the middle of it.

As he passed the cells, he kept his expression neutral, though his sharp eyes took in everything. One inmate sat in the corner of his cell, repeatedly slamming his fist into the limp body of what was either an unconscious—or very dead—cellmate, whispering, “Fresh meat…” over and over. Cecil suppressed a shiver.

Finally, they reached his cell. Without hesitation, the guards shoved him inside, the impact making him stumble slightly. The heavy door clanged shut behind him, sealing him in with you.

“Good luck,” one of the guards sneered. “Their last cellmate left in a bucket.”

Cecil sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose before finally looking up at you. His eyes flicked over your form, assessing, calculating.

Then, with an exasperated breath, he spoke.

“Hi. What’s your name?”