The cell was cold, and silent.
Its only source of light were the dim torches lined on the walls and flickering weakly, their light barely reaching the corners of the cell.
The ensuing silence was broken only by the sound of chains clinking softly as a certain figure shifted slightly.
Ren sat on the floor, hunched against the wall, arms shackled, clothes torn and stained. His hair had grown long, hanging over tired eyes. A faint red tattoo glowed ominously on his right arm,
But unlike the time with the cultists, He was no longer lost in a trance, there was no longer a voice constantly ringing in his head he was in the present, a state he wished would stay forever.
