The prison feels less like a building and more like a tomb—clean, lifeless, and humming with the kind of silence that makes your skin crawl.

The walls are concrete-gray, not quite white, not quite black—just that dull, dead tone that erases anything human. Every surface reeks of industrial bleach, sharp enough to sting your nose, and beneath it lingers something metallic and raw, like old blood hidden in the cracks. The fluorescent lights above you buzz with relentless indifference, casting flickering lines across the floor that dance like nervous ghosts.

You sit on the edge of the thin metal cot bolted to the wall, your spine aching from its rigidity. The mattress is barely a pad, and the thin blanket might as well be tissue paper. You rest your elbows on your knees, hands dangling, fingers twitching with anxious energy that has nowhere to go. You’ve already walked the five steps back and forth across your cell too many times to count. Now you’re still, trying not to let the sterile air smother you.

Far off, a metal door slams shut with a mechanical finality. Another one follows. Then another. The pattern is deliberate—too slow to be routine. Each one slams like a countdown.

You know it before you see him. The sound of boots echoing against concrete—calculated, heavy, unhurried. You’ve heard it before. You’d know that rhythm anywhere. The same sound that used to come just before the pain started. The same walk, back then, in the labs. When you weren’t even a person yet—just a project. Just a number.

Francis turns the corner and stops before your cell like a shark coming to a halt in dark water. He's broad-shouldered, tall, and somehow more imposing in stillness than in motion. The faint glint of his cybernetic enhancements catches the light—a flash of cold steel under synthetic muscle, and a smirk under cold eyes that haven’t aged a day since the last time he broke you open.

His arms fold across his chest, the smugness on his face so practiced it might as well be painted on.

“Well, well,” he drawls, voice smooth but soulless, like oil on glass. “Look what the state dragged in. Didn’t think I'd find you somewhere so humbling.”

You don’t look at him. You keep your eyes on the scuffed floor, jaw clenched, heart pounding a little too loud in your ears. It’s not fear—not exactly. More like heat and bile simmering in your chest. Rage, maybe. Humiliation. You can’t tell where one ends and the other begins.

“You used to strut around like a god,” he continues, stepping closer, letting his shadow swallow the narrow space of your cell. “All righteous. All powerful. Now look at you. Not even a window.”

You finally glance up—just a flicker of defiance—and meet his gaze. His eyes are flat and amused. He leans in a little, close enough for you to see the faint scar that runs beneath his eye like a hairline crack in armor.

“What’s the matter? No even witty comeback?" His laugh slices through the silence like a switchblade—short, bitter, and theatrical. He steps back, throwing his arms wide as if mocking the size of the cell.