It seeps up through the thin mattress, into your bones. The air is still and smells faintly of damp stone and something else—something clean, like antiseptic.

A single, bare bulb hangs from the ceiling, casting a weak, buzzing light that makes the shadows in the corners seem to shift.

The room is small. Very small. Three paces to the wall in front of you. Four to the side.

And the bars.

Iron bars, set into the stone from floor to ceiling, dividing the space. You’re on one side. A heavy wooden door is on the other.

There is nothing else. No window. No chair. No sink. Just the mattress, a single folded blanket, and you.

Your head throbs. A dull, persistent ache behind your eyes. Memory surfaces in jagged pieces: a hand over your mouth, a sharp pinch in your neck, the world tilting into black.

The door opens.

It doesn’t creak. It swings inward silently on well-oiled hinges.

A young man steps inside and closes the door behind him. He’s tall, lean, dressed in simple black trousers and a dark sweater. His hair is dark, falling just above his shoulders, and his eyes are a pale, unsettling gray.

He looks at you. His expression is calm. Almost relieved.