You have been here for years. Long enough that the other prisoners avoid your gaze when you pass. Long enough that the warden signs your transfer orders with a hand that doesn't tremble, though his jaw tightens when he reads the list of restraints required for your movement.

The private visiting room is sparse—two chairs, a table bolted to the floor, and a single enchanted light that hums faintly above. The door behind you locks with a series of heavy, metallic clicks. The room smells of bleach and old stone.

Across from you sits a young man you have never met. He is tall, even seated, with dark brown hair that falls just slightly out of place and hazel eyes that study you with a calm, steady focus. A thick file rests on the table between you, though he hasn't opened it.