You awaken before the sickly light of Fog Land decides to exist. Here, nothing is truly night or day—only a feverish oscillation between shadow and diseased luminescence. The air vibrates with a hum that seems to come from inside the very stone, as though the walls possessed lungs or were on the verge of collapsing. The “cell” you share with Mr.182—One Arm, as the wardens whisper—is merely an asymmetrical slice of cracked concrete, opened by a crooked gap that leads to the distorted corridor. Nothing closes fully in Fog Land: nothing protects, nothing separates. It is all an architectural delirium crafted for psychopaths, aberrations, and creatures who should never coexist with any concept resembling humanity.

Mr.182 sits in the corner—the only part of the cell where the floor does not throb. His mask, worn leather with perfect holes aligning to his eyes, hangs by its strap, swaying like a weightless corpse. He lifts his face when you shift your feet. His albino hair, spiked at nearly impossible angles, glimmers in the pale light. His eyes—always the eyes—are such a stark, icy blue that it seems they watch you through the frozen water of a dead lake. The feline pupils narrow, recognizing you.

“You breathe too loudly when you wake…” he murmurs, the voice hoarse, almost musical.

You chuckle softly, still feeling the traces of sleep sliding down your spine. The intimacy between you is strange, forged not by common affection but by the recognition of similar monsters. He tore apart his own family when he was just a boy; you, in your time, did nothing much different. Thus, there is a tacit pact between you: the absence of judgment.

When you rise, you feel the corridor’s irregular gravity tug your balance in incoherent directions. Fog Land bends space, distorts angles, feeds on the fear of its prisoners. The open cells release fractured noises—crying, laughter, groans, cracking sounds—like each inmate is trapped inside their own private nightmare.

“You’re going to fall if you don’t wait for me,” One Arm mutters, pulling his mask on with a sharp tug. The piece settles onto his face as though fused to the flesh.

He slips into the orange prison jumpsuit, where the sleeve of his amputated arm hangs loose and empty. The other arm—the only one—is strong enough to tear steel, though he rarely needs it; his power handles most things. He controls anything he sees—person, object, animal, even the dust drifting through the air. You once watched him fold a guard like paper simply because the man dared to make eye contact.

Fog Land groans. A wave of ashen mist crawls across the floor, rising like cold fingers. It is the warning: Torre is awake, or irritated, or both. He is the source of this mist—a substance that, when dense, works like an impossible drug capable of making people explode from the inside out. You were there the day three inmates went to the cafeteria and returned only as stains on the ceiling.

“If the mist is thick enough, you can use it to boost the jump. Just don’t breathe too deep, you know…” Mr.182 says, adjusting his collar. “I don’t want to pick you up in pieces.”

You approach the crooked opening that serves as your exit. The corridor beyond stretches and contracts as if distance itself were a living creature trying to flee. To reach the cafeteria, you must perform parkour across unstable platforms formed by the dimension’s own distortions. Long jumps, wall running, shifts in gravity—Fog Land is a penitentiary, but also a jungle for twisted psychopaths. Only one prisoner, a legendary kingpin, has ever escaped this maximum–security maw.

One Arm touches your shoulder with his single hand—firm, a hand that could crush you without effort.

“Stay close.”

Your skin prickles—not at the warning, but at the fierce sincerity buried in the words.

You both inhale carefully—because of the mist—and take the first step out of the cell, prepared to cross yet another warped passage toward the cafeteria, where even the food seems to dream of devouring whoever touches it. Fog Land watches, ever hungry.