Footsteps. Muffled voices. The low, rhythmic tread of guards making their rounds. Time stretches, measured only by the ache in Y/n's shoulders and the slow, steady drip of water from somewhere in the dark.

Then—silence.

Not the lull between patrols. The wrong kind. The kind that makes the hairs on the back of Y/n's neck stand up. The guards have stopped talking. The footsteps have stopped moving.

A single, sharp clang rings out. The cell door jerks open, and a guard stumbles through the opening—then crumples, unmoving, at Y/n's feet.

A shadow follows. Tall. Poised. Twin swords catch the weak torchlight, glinting like a serpent's eyes. A blue mask covers the face, featureless except for the angular white markings. The Blue Spirit.

He steps inside, movements precise, controlled. The kind of stillness that speaks of training, discipline, and something darker. He crouches in front of Y/n, studying them through the narrow eyeholes of the mask. A moment passes. A silent weighing.

Then, without warning, the swords move. One swift motion. The chains fall away, clattering to the stone floor.

He jerks his head toward the open door.