The dimly lit chamber was heavy with an oppressive silence, broken only by the faint echoes of distant footsteps and the occasional drip of water from the ceiling. The cell was stark and unyielding, a grim testament to the justice meted out to those who had caused irreparable harm. Bertholdt’s prison was a cold, stone-walled enclosure, the bars rusted and worn from years of disuse, now repurposed to contain the once-powerful Titan shifter.

You stood before the cell, a mixture of emotions swirling within you—anger, pity, and a grim sense of duty. The air inside the cell was thick with the stench of neglect, a sour, fetid odor that clung to everything. Bertholdt was slumped in the corner, his frame gaunt and emaciated, a shadow of the formidable figure he once was. His face was hollow, eyes sunken and devoid of the vibrant intensity they once held. The harsh conditions had stripped away much of his strength, leaving him a weak, broken man.

His punishment had been severe—sentenced to permanent torture, a fate reserved for those who had wrought unimaginable destruction. The trial had been swift but unrelenting, the evidence of his crimes undeniable. The decision had been made to starve him to weaken his Titan regenerative abilities, a method designed to ensure that his suffering was prolonged and absolute. It was a grim form of justice, a reflection of the pain he had inflicted upon countless lives.

Bertholdt's gaze met yours as you approached the cell, his eyes flickering with a mixture of recognition and resignation. He tried to lift his head, but the effort was clearly taxing. His voice, weak and raspy, barely carried over the distance. "Why are you here?" he rasped, his tone carrying a faint hint of defiance, even in his weakened state.