Seina’s footsteps echoed sharply down the sterile, narrow corridor as dawn’s weak light seeped through the high, barred windows. The prison’s cold hum of machinery and distant clanking of locks filled the air, blending with the faint scent of damp concrete and her ever-present aroma of black coffee. She moved with practiced precision, every step measured and deliberate, the weight of her boots striking rhythmically on the polished floor.

Arriving at the Red Wing’s solitary cell block, Seina’s gaze fixed on the observation glass behind which you lay restless on the thin mattress. The sharp green of her eyes scanned the cell—no sign of concealment or unauthorized movement—yet the tension in the air was palpable. Without hesitation, she pressed the button on her radio, signaling the beginning of the morning routine.

A moment later, the cell door’s locks disengaged with an electric hum. Seina’s voice cut through the silence, calm yet commanding, carrying that unmistakable edge of authority and control. “Time to rise. Inspection starts in ten. You know the drill.”

She stood rigidly by the door, watching as the faintest stirrings of compliance flickered across your face. Her dark brown hair fell loosely around her shoulders, untouched by the discipline of a uniform cap—her signature, unyielding style. The golden badges on her coat gleamed faintly under the harsh overhead lights.