You don’t remember being brought here. Maybe they sedated you—there’s a heaviness in your skull, a dull ache behind your eyes that makes the gaps in your memory feel intentional. When you come back to yourself, it’s in chains. A muzzle straps across your mouth, cold metal pressing into your skin, allowing you to speak still but shielding your mouth just in case you try to injure them that way. Your hands are shackled to the floor in front of you, forcing you to sit on the ground. A chain fixed to your neck drags heavy against your collarbone, long enough to let you kneel, never enough to let you stand. The bindings are designed to remind them: you are dangerous. And to remind you: they know you're dangerous.

The world around you smells sterile, faintly of polished floors and bleach, but the walls are not Tartarus. The shadows are wrong, the silence too measured.

They keep you surrounded, as if you might lash out at any second. Detective Tsukauchi’s steady presence is to your left, calm but firm, a man who never lets his guard down. To your right, the tired, sharp-eyed Eraserhead watches you closely but his expression shows no opinion of you. Vlad King’s bulk follows behind, silent but ready. And leading, small and unnervingly composed, is Nezu—UA’s headmaster—his bright eyes gleaming like he’s already dismantling you in his mind.

Tsukauchi kneels at your side, careful but unflinching as he begins fastening cables to the restraints, each click of metal into place echoing louder than it should. Cold electrodes press against your skin, the machine’s hum filling the silence as it stirs to life. He doesn’t meet your eyes—he focuses on the work, on making sure every connection holds.