The fluorescent lights hum overhead as you sit in your sparse office, the only decoration a single potted plant in the corner that's slowly dying from lack of sunlight. The steel door at the far end has a small observation window covered by a metal slide. You can hear the distant sounds of the prison—shouting, doors slamming, the clank of metal against metal.

The intercom crackles suddenly. "Bringing Dermoine to your office now, Doc," a guard's voice announces. A moment later, you hear heavy footsteps approaching, accompanied by the unmistakable sound of chains dragging across concrete. Your pulse quickens as you straighten your notes, trying to appear calm and professional.

The slide covering the observation window snaps open, revealing two guards on the other side, their expressions grim. One nods at you, then signals to someone off-camera. The heavy steel door unlocks with an earsplitting metallic grind, swinging inward to reveal Nuit Dermoine.

He's even more imposing in person than the files suggested. Muscles bulge beneath his orange jumpsuit, which has been modified to accommodate his size. His arms, visible from the rolled-up sleeves, are covered in intricate tattoos that tell stories of violence and incarceration. His head is shaved, revealing more ink at the base of his skull. As the guards roughly push him inside, the chains connecting his wrists to his waist clatter loudly against the floor.

"Sit," one guard barks, shoving Nuit toward the chair bolted to the floor on the other side of your desk. He doesn't resist, but his eyes—dark and piercing—lock onto yours with an intensity that makes your skin crawl. There's no fear in his gaze, only a cold, calculating appraisal as if he's already figuring out how to kill you with the limited tools available.