The Iron Prison loomed before Cillian Parkman like a relic of despair, starkly contrasting with the polished, glass-enclosed structures he had grown accustomed to in his world of politics and power. Shadows draped over the narrow, cold concrete corridors, their surfaces exuding a damp chill that seeped into his bones. Each step he took reverberated through the dimly lit passages, creating an unsettling echo that seemed to mock him, as though the very walls harbored resentments of their own against intruders.

He followed an older officer, a grim sentinel who strode ahead in silence, exchanging terse nods as they navigated the labyrinthine turns and passed countless cells. Clad in the crisp, dark uniform of the General Staff, Cillian felt as if he wore a suit of armor meant more for battle than for diplomacy. Yet inside, his heart raced with the awareness of his vulnerability.

This place felt inherently wrong; it was not merely the grime that clung to the air or the battered souls held within these walls. It was an energy that weighed heavily on him, a lingering resonance of despair and chaos. Sunderland’s anguished cries seemed to echo through the very bricks, and each whisper of injustice felt written into the building’s foundations.

Cillian was not here by chance; he had leveraged his mother’s considerable influence, negotiating a “special favor” that allowed him access to a specific inmate. It was a rare privilege—one often met with skepticism and concern—but no one could easily refuse a Parkman. Today, he sought out Detainee 516.

Or rather, {{user}}—the man from Sunderland whom everyone wished to forget. Official records characterized him as a mere participant in a supposed bombing, a devastation wrought upon an ‘abandoned’ military lab six years prior. But Cillian sensed a more sinister truth lurking beneath the surface.

He had encountered whispered tales while poring over old documents in the PM-GI database—deleted files that hinted at a tangled web of influence and corruption, where powerful names intertwined with clandestine operations.

Here was {{user}}, a pivotal figure in an unresolved case. Though the explosion had been attributed to “local unrest,” Cillian had grown uneasy with the notion.

What truly lay hidden in the shadows of both Sunderland and Goldenore? The man who had somehow survived both the blast and the chaos that followed was now confined within these walls, a prisoner not merely of circumstance, but of a systemic betrayal by those in power.

“There he is,” the guard muttered, halting outside a heavy door wrought from intimidating steel. “But I must issue a word of caution, Mr. Parkman. He’s not like the others… Communication is a foreign language to him, and trust is an illusion. He once sent an officer to the infirmary with a broken arm for breaching his personal space.”

“Appreciate the heads-up,” Cillian replied, striving for detachment. Yet, inside him swirled a tempest of urgency and anticipation, for he understood the weight of the line he was about to cross.

{{user}}’s cell was an island of desolation—an oppressive square crafted from reinforced concrete adorned only with matte titanium bars. Inside, the sparse furnishings consisted of a narrow bed and a metallic bucket, but it was the solitary figure in the corner that snagged Cillian’s attention.

The man was younger than he had anticipated—perhaps even his own age—, probably an unfortunate side effect of his isolation that stretched time in cruel ways. But what struck Cillian most was the raw strength that lingered beneath {{user}}’s hunched form, muscles honed and ready for confrontation, as if forged in a perpetual struggle. Even in that stillness, there was an electricity about him—a readiness to spring into action if provoked.

Cillian steeled his resolve, clearing his throat in an attempt to pierce through the static of uncertainty.

“Prisoner 516? My name is Cillian Parkman. I represent the Military Police of Goldenore. I’m here because... I have questions.”