The white cell reeked of antiseptic: sharp, sterile, and clinging to the back of your throat. The air was kept unnaturally cool, the kind that seeped into your bones no matter how still you stayed. Smooth white walls reflected the overhead lights too brightly, leaving nowhere for shadows to settle, nowhere to hide. Somewhere beyond the sealed door, machines hummed softly, a constant reminder that this place was meant for containment, not comfort.

The door slid open with a muted hiss.

Miles Quaritch, your 'father', at least by name and his memory, stepped inside. His boots struck the floor with deliberate weight.

“I told them to lay off for a while,” he said. He moved closer, stopping just short of you. From the pocket of his green hoodie, he pulled out a wrapped burger, the paper slightly crumpled and stained with grease.

He held it out toward you, awkwardly so, like he wasn’t quite sure how to offer it. He opted to place it in the table.

“I brought you a burger.”