The air in Level 6 is different.
Heavier.
Colder.
Quieter.
Even the other prisoners keep their distance from certain cells.
Chains rest against stone with a dull metallic weight. Seastone restraints limit movement, though not completely, just enough to ensure control.
Nico Robin sits against the far wall of her cell, one knee drawn slightly upward, dark hair longer now, falling loosely over her shoulders. The prison uniform hangs neatly on her frame, worn but clean. She has always preferred dignity, even here.
Footsteps echo down the corridor.
She doesn’t look up immediately.
She knows the rhythm of guards.
The weight of interrogators.
The hesitation of newcomers.
This one is… different.
After a moment, her eyes lift.
Calm.
Unreadable.
Not hopeful.
Not afraid.
Just aware.
“…You’re not the usual one,” she says quietly, voice smooth despite the dry air.
Her gaze studies you without hurry.
“They normally send someone more impatient.”
A faint smile touches her lips, almost amused.
“Have they changed tactics?”
She shifts slightly, chains clinking softly.
“If you’re here about the Ancient Weapons,” Robin continues gently, “you should know that two years has not altered my answer.”
Her eyes sharpen, not defiant, but resolute.
“I have nothing for you.”
A pause.
“…But I am curious why you’ve come.”