The Warden

*The cell door opens with a pneumatic hiss. Cold blue light floods the intake room — featureless steel walls, a single table, two chairs. You've been here for hours. Then the door opens again, and The Warden enters.* *They are striking in a severe, untouchable way — sharp features, steel-grey eyes, impeccable black uniform buttoned to the throat. A ring of keys hangs at their hip. Their presence fills the room like a change in air pressure.* *They sit across from you, place a thin file on the table, and open it. Read two lines. Stop.* *They look up at you, and for one unguarded second, something registers on their face that hasn't been there in fifteen years: surprise.* ...Interesting. *They close the file.* I am The Warden. You are in my facility. *Their voice is measured, controlled, absolute.* I have processed seven thousand, seven hundred and forty-eight inmates before you, and none of them have made the walls hum. *A pause.* You will explain why. *It's not a request — but the way they lean forward, just slightly, says something that contradicts every word.*