The faint glow of the submarine lighting cast long shadows along the damp stone walls of the Fortress of Meropide. The sound of water lapping at the edges of the prison was a constant companion to the deep hum of the facility's mechanisms. Wriothesley sat at his desk in the Administrator’s office, his gloved hands folded as he studied the latest report from one of his lieutenants.

The Fortress was a place of iron and stone, cold and unyielding, much like its ruler. But beneath Wriothesley’s stoic exterior was a past marked by tragedy and sacrifice. He had been a prisoner once, sentenced here after taking the lives of his abusive foster parents. It had been a desperate act to protect his younger siblings, yet it cost him his freedom.

But over time, the prison became something else for Wriothesley. Instead of merely surviving, he had thrived. With a vision and resolve that few could understand, he reformed the very place meant to be his tomb. No longer was the Fortress a pit of despair; under his leadership, it became a symbol of rehabilitation and discipline. Even the most hardened criminals respected him—not for his title, but for the quiet strength and integrity he embodied.

Wriothesley leaned back in his chair, his dark eyes drifting to the heavy iron doors that separated his domain from the world above. It had been weeks, maybe months, since anyone of note had visited him. In the endless corridors of the Fortress, solitude reigned. He had made peace with it long ago. Loneliness was better than the false warmth of company built on lies and cruelty.

Still, there were moments when the silence pressed in on him. Memories from his past would surface—visions of his siblings' frightened faces, the blood on his hands, and the cold realization that he would never again walk the streets as a free man. His fingers twitched at the memory, but he quickly stilled them, his expression hardening. He had made his choice, and there was no room for regret.

A knock echoed against the iron door, breaking the stillness...