Chapter 2: 8 Years of Suffering (2)
The visitation room was a cramped, gray box, as lifeless as the rest of the prison. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting a cold, sickly glow that made everything look washed out. The air smelled of stale disinfectant and rust, a constant reminder of the walls that trapped him. Edgar Munsen sat at the metal table, his hands cuffed in front of him. The cuffs were a formality—everyone in the prison knew nobody dared touch the Beast of Block 9 anymore. His reputation was carved in blood, whispered in fear.
He stared at the chipped paint on the wall, his gray eyes dull and empty, like a fire that had long since burned out. The hum of the lights filled the silence, grating on his nerves, but he didn't flinch. He'd learned to live with discomfort, to let it sink into his bones like everything else in this place.
The door creaked open, a sharp sound that cut through the quiet. A woman stepped inside, her dark suit crisp and professional, a stark contrast to the grime around her. She clutched a thick folder to her chest, her movements careful, like she was stepping into a lion's den. Her hair was pulled back tightly, and her eyes were sharp but wary, scanning Edgar as if trying to gauge how much of the rumors were true.
"Mr. Munsen," she said, her voice soft but steady, like she'd practiced it. "It's me—Ms. Watson. Your attorney."
Edgar didn't look up. He kept his gaze on the wall, his face unreadable. "You're the lawyer they sent this time?" His voice was low, rough from years of disuse, carrying a weight that made the air feel heavier.
"Yes," she said, easing into the chair across from him. She set the folder on the table, her fingers lingering on it. "And I came with good news."
At that, Edgar's head turned slowly, like a predator catching a scent. His gray eyes locked onto hers, cold and piercing, searching for something—weakness, lies, pity. "Good news?" His voice was flat, almost mocking. "Good for who?"
Ms. Watson swallowed, a flicker of unease crossing her face, but she pressed on. "For you, Edgar. You've been proven innocent."
He blinked once, his expression unchanged, like the words hadn't even reached him. The silence stretched, heavy and tense, as if the room itself was holding its breath.
She opened the folder, her hands steady despite the weight of his stare. "It came to light after the company you worked for went bankrupt. The detectives and the FBI dug into the mess—fraud, corruption, all of it. They found a trail leading back to your case. Fabricated evidence. False testimonies. The surveillance guard who testified against you? He confessed he lied. He handed over the original CCTV footage—the one that proves you didn't do it. That night never happened the way they said it did." She paused, her voice softening. "Your boss, Evelyn Valentine, saw the footage herself. She knows the truth now."
She leaned forward slightly, a faint smile touching her lips, like she thought it might reach him. "You're innocent, Edgar. The rape… it never happened. You can be freed."
The word—freed—hung in the air like a blade, sharp and gleaming, but Edgar didn't move. His eyes stayed locked on hers, and something dark began to stir in their depths, like a storm gathering on the horizon.
"Free?" he said, his voice so quiet it was almost a whisper. "Who's being freed?"
Ms. Watson frowned, her confidence wavering. "You are, Edgar. You're cleared of all charges. You'll be released—"
"What's the use?" His voice cracked, sharp and jagged, cutting her off. The air seemed to tighten around them. "What's the fucking use of being proven innocent, huh, attorney? Tell me—WHAT'S THE USE OF BEING PROVEN INNOCENT?!"
He slammed his cuffed hands onto the table, the metal clanging like a gunshot in the small room. The sound echoed, raw and angry, as the chains rattled against the steel.
Ms. Watson flinched, her breath catching, but she held her ground, her training kicking in. "Edgar—"
"DO YOU KNOW HOW MANY YEARS I'VE SUFFERED IN THIS PLACE, HUH?!" His voice roared, shaking the walls, shaking her. "Eight years! Eight fucking years I rotted in this hell! Beaten, humiliated, broken—every single day! And you're telling me 'you're innocent' like it fixes anything!"
She opened her mouth to speak, but he didn't let her. "THAT DOESN'T MATTER?!" he shouted, his voice cracking with rage and pain. "YOU THINK THIS PIECE OF PAPER CLEARS EVERYTHING?! TWO FUCKING YEARS—TWO FUCKING YEARS I WAS ABUSED, HUMILIATED, RAPED IN THIS PRISON! AGAIN AND AGAIN AND AGAIN! Every night was hell, every morning I prayed to die! And now you sit there, smiling, telling me 'you're free'?! What the fuck does that even mean?!"
His voice broke, a raw mix of a scream and a sob. Tears glistened in his eyes, but they didn't fall—not yet. His chest heaved, his cuffed hands trembling on the table. "My college friends cut me off like I was nothing. My parents disowned me. My sister looks at me like I'm garbage. Even the guards here treat me like I'm less than human!"
He leaned forward, his face inches from hers, his voice dropping to a venomous hiss. "Tell me, attorney—does it matter if I get freed now? No! No, it doesn't! It was useless from the start!"
Ms. Watson's hands shook slightly, clutching the folder like a shield, but she didn't back away. Her voice was calm, though her eyes betrayed her fear. "Edgar… what matters is that now you can rebuild your life. People know the truth. The media's on your side. You can start over—"
"SHUT UP!!!" His roar filled the room, raw and broken, like a wounded animal lashing out. The walls seemed to tremble with the force of it.
He glared at her, his breathing heavy, his gray eyes burning with a fury that made her freeze. "If that's all you came to say, get out of my face. And don't come back. Because if you do—" his voice dropped to a chilling whisper, each word sharp as a blade—"I'll kill you. Just like I killed those bastards who made me suffer here."
The silence that followed was thick, suffocating, like the air had been sucked out of the room. Ms. Watson's composure cracked for a moment, her eyes widening, but she quickly pulled herself together. She stood, closing the folder with trembling hands, her movements slow and deliberate. "You'll be released soon," she said softly, her voice barely above a whisper. "Whatever you decide to do next… I hope it gives you peace."
She turned and walked out, her heels clicking sharply against the concrete floor. The door shut behind her with a heavy thud, the sound echoing like a final judgment.
Edgar sat alone in the empty room, the echo of his own words ringing in his ears. "Peace," he muttered, his voice bitter, dripping with scorn. 'Peace? There's no peace for the dead.'
He leaned back in the chair, staring at the ceiling, his eyes unfocused, lost in a storm of memories—his own and Kaizer's. The paper declaring his innocence sat untouched on the table, its words meaningless. Eight years ago, he'd been a man who believed in justice, in fairness, in people. That man was gone, crushed under the weight of betrayal and pain. Now, there was only the Beast of Block 9, a man forged in rage, shaped by the memories of Kaizer Von Heldmort.
'They think freedom will fix me,' he thought, his lips curling into a faint, bitter smile. 'They don't know what I've become. They don't know the game I'm playing now.'
He closed his eyes, letting the silence wrap around him like a shroud. Kaizer's memories flickered in his mind—ballrooms and betrayals, swords and guillotines. Kaizer had tried to change his fate, to save those who didn't deserve it, only to be cast aside. Edgar wouldn't make the same mistake. If this was his first transmigration or second life, he wouldn't waste it on trust or hope.
'They took everything from me,' he thought. 'My life, my name, my humanity. Let's see what they do when I take it all back.'
The hum of the lights droned on, a constant reminder of the cage he'd lived in for eight years. But now, the cage was about to open. Freedom wasn't salvation—it was a battlefield. And Edgar, or Kaizer, or whoever he was now, was ready to fight.
Outside, a guard peeked through the small glass window, his eyes lingering on the infamous Beast of Block 9. Edgar sat still, his face calm but his eyes burning with a quiet, dangerous fire. The guard shivered and looked away, unwilling to meet that gaze.
Edgar didn't move. The paper on the table fluttered slightly in the draft from the ventilation, its words of "innocence" mocking him. For him, freedom wasn't a gift. It was just another kind of cage—a new game, a new fate, waiting to be challenged.