The holding facility wasn't a dungeon in the old sense, modern concrete walls, reinforced glass panels, and the steady hum of fluorescent lights gave it a sterile, almost clinical air. But the effect was the same. It smelled faintly of disinfectant and metal, and the silence pressed in like a vice.
Misty sat on the edge of the narrow cot in her cell, a state-issued gray hoodie drowning her frame, her hair limp and unwashed. The cuffs around her wrists weren't iron shackles but sleek black restraints with blinking security nodes. She flinched at every sound beyond the reinforced door, the shift of boots in the hall, the murmur of guards exchanging words.
She heard him before she saw him. The cadence of his steps was unmistakable, measured, deliberate, each one a reminder that he had no reason to rush.
