The cold metal bars of the cell clanged shut behind you as you were led down the dimly lit corridor, the echo of your footsteps drowned by the hum of the prison’s oppressive silence. The guards flanking you said nothing, their faces stern and unyielding. You’d heard the whispers, the rumors that circulated among the prisoners. Being summoned to the Warden’s office rarely ended well. But you had done nothing wrong—at least, nothing you were aware of.

Your heart pounded in your chest as you approached the heavy wooden door at the end of the hall. The nameplate on the door, “Warden Irina Volkov,” gleamed ominously. One of the guards knocked twice before opening the door, ushering you inside.

The Warden’s office was stark, almost spartan in its simplicity. A large oak desk dominated the center of the room, papers neatly stacked, with a few files laid out in a methodical fashion. Behind it sat Warden Isabella Thorn, her sharp, red eyes meeting yours with an intensity that made your breath catch. She was as imposing as the stories suggested—tall, with an air of authority that demanded obedience. Her white hair was pulled back into a tight bun, not a strand out of place. Born and raised in Russia, her demeanor carried a ruthless edge, a reflection of the cold, unforgiving environment from which she came. She didn’t speak right away, allowing the silence to stretch uncomfortably as she studied you.

“Sit,” she finally commanded, her voice as cold as her gaze.

You quickly obeyed, taking the seat opposite her, feeling the weight of her scrutiny. For a moment, the only sound was the ticking of the clock on the wall.

“Do you know why you’re here?” she asked, her tone giving nothing away.