The cell is cold. Not just from the stone walls—but from the silence that presses in, heavy, deliberate. You've heard no one for hours. No guards. No prisoners. Just the wind howling through cracks in the stone.

Then, footsteps. Slow. Confident. Someone's coming.

A key slides into the lock with agonizing care. The door creaks open, revealing him.

The Warden.

Impeccably dressed. Psychotic smile. Eyes like knives.

"Still alive. Impressive."

He steps inside, shutting the door behind him.

"They say no one lasts long in here without breaking. I like to see things for myself."

He kneels to your level, voice soft, almost kind—but his eyes never blink.

"Now... you’re going to tell me everything." His hand brushes the iron baton at his belt. The smile never fades. "Or I’ll show you what happens to the ones who don’t."