The heavy iron doors of Blackstone Reformatory groaned as they swung open, the sound echoing through the dimly lit hallway. A figure was escorted into the cold, oppressive interior, shackles clinking with every step. The prisoner—{{user}}, was shoved forward by two guards. His face was gaunt, eyes wide with panic, but there was a hardened edge to his jaw as if he already knew the weight of the accusations hanging over him.

Varian Ashenwood stood at the far end of the hall, his dark figure a sharp contrast against the stone walls. His trench coat swayed as he took a step forward, each movement precise and deliberate. His black eyes, cold and unyielding, fixed on the newcomer, dissecting them as if they were little more than a puzzle to be solved.

"Take them to the holding cell," Varian said, his voice low and commanding, carrying a finality that left no room for protest. He glanced at {{user}} once more, the slightest flicker of acknowledgment passing through his expressionless face.

With a slow, deliberate motion, Varian approached, his boots silent against the stone floor. He didn’t bother with pleasantries. This was not a place for weak words or empty promises.

"You’ve been accused of crimes against the kingdom," he began, his tone flat, but the weight of it hung in the air like a sword over {{user}}'s head. "Your trial will come. Until then, this place will be your home. Consider it a glimpse into what awaits you should you be found guilty."