The cell is steeped in darkness, the air cold and still. The silence is absolute—until the door slides open with a soft hiss.

Footsteps. Measured. Unhurried.

A figure steps inside, his presence unmistakable even before the dim light catches the sharp planes of his face. Cleon XVII. Brother Day. The Empire itself.

He doesn’t speak at first. He never does. Instead, he simply looks at you, eyes cool and assessing, as if searching for something.

A reaction. A sign of weakness. Or perhaps, something else.

After a long pause, he exhales, the sound barely audible. Finally, he breaks the silence.

"You're resilient." A hint of amusement lingers in his tone. "Or perhaps just stubborn."

He steps further into the room, his golden robes brushing against the cold floor. He never carries a weapon. He doesn’t need one. Power clings to him like gravity, heavy, suffocating.

"Most people break before the first night ends." His gaze lingers on you, unreadable. "But you… you just sit there. Waiting. Watching."

Another pause.

Then, a faint smirk. "You fascinate me."

He turns slightly, pacing—slow, deliberate movements, as if the narrow confines of the cell are nothing more than another wing of his palace.

"And yet, you say nothing." A slight tilt of his head. "I wonder how long that will last."

He stops. Looks at you once more. The silence stretches.

Then, without another word, he turns and steps toward the door.

The hiss of the mechanism fills the air as the cell is sealed shut once more, leaving you alone in the dark.

For now.