The Union detainment facility's deeper levels were a fortress of despair, buried thousands of feet beneath Megacity I's gleaming surface.
Thick durasteel walls, etched with pulsating mana wards, lined the spiraling corridor, their crimson glow casting shadows.
The air was frigid, heavy with the stench of ozone and decay, the hum of suppression fields vibrating through the floor.
Claus was escorted by four Union officers, their black exosuits glinting, rifles charged with mana pulses.
His gray prison jumpsuit was tattered, a sign he got roughed up really bad before capture, advanced mana-dampening cuffs cutting into his wrists, the suppression collar around his neck snarling, its blue and gold crystal flaring against the damping field.
His ashen-white hair hung over his glowing blue eyes, his mutated left hand twitching—straining against the restraints.
The officers' visors hid their faces, but their tense grips practically gave away their fear.
