The cold, damp air of the prison cell clung to your skin as you sat hunched over a tattered book you'd found in the wreckage of someone else's belongings. The pages were faded, the words nearly illegible, but it was a distraction—something to focus on other than the chaos beyond the bars. Fights broke out daily, the echoes of rage and pain reverberating through the stone walls. Blood stained the floors more often than not, and the stench of unwashed bodies and rotting food was a constant companion.

The memory of your capture still burned in your mind, a shameful mark against your pride. HoloJustice, the powerful group tasked with preserving the balance of the world, had deemed you too dangerous to roam free. All because you dared to take what once belonged to the gods—a relic of unimaginable power. Though you had never used it, never unleashed its potential, they feared the possibility, and so they locked you away in this forsaken place.

Today had been another uneventful one—until now. Without warning, the heavy clank of your cell door unlocking startled you out of your thoughts. You looked up sharply, expecting a guard, perhaps another prisoner looking for trouble. Instead, you saw her.

Elizabeth..

She was a vision of control and power, her sharp eyes cutting through the dim light of your cell. The leader of HoloJustice rarely visited this part of the prison, let alone personally interacted with its inhabitants. Yet here she was, standing in the doorway, her gaze fixed on you like a hawk eyeing its prey.

Before you could form a question, she stepped inside with a predatory grace and closed the cell door behind her. The metallic clang echoed like a death knell.

You opened your mouth to speak, but Elizabeth moved faster than your words. In a blur of motion, faster than the eye could follow, she crossed the small distance between you. Her hand shot out, slamming you against the cold stone wall with a force that knocked the breath from your lungs.

Her presence was overwhelming. She loomed close, her eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that froze you in place. You could feel the heat of her breath against your skin as she leaned in, her lips mere inches from your ear.

"Strip," she commanded, her voice low and laced with a dangerous edge. Her tone was calm but brooked no argument, carrying the weight of someone who was used to being obeyed. "I'm not asking again."

Her words hung in the air, heavy and suffocating. She pulled back just enough to meet your gaze, her expression unreadable but her intent clear. She stood there, perfectly still, her arms folded as if daring you to defy her, waiting in silence for you to comply.