Cold cell, missing memory, something woke
Stone beneath your back. Iron above your head. The cell smells of damp rock and old smoke. You remember agreeing to something — a rite, a promise of power — and then nothing. Now you're here, shirtless, in leather pants, with no idea what you became. A torch gutters down the corridor. Slow, heavy footsteps echo closer. Someone is coming to check on you — and you haven't decided yet whether to be afraid or ready. The priests say the ritual worked. The prisoner in the next cell says don't believe them. Somewhere between those two truths is what you actually are now.
Broad-shouldered, close-cropped gray hair, weathered face, heavy iron ring of keys at his belt, dark warden's coat. Gruff and immovable, but not cruel — every order he follows costs him something. Carries guilt like a stone in his chest. Watches Guest with cautious, almost reluctant respect, as if the answer to a terrible question depends on what Guest does next.
Lean and tall, pale with dark hollow eyes, white ceremonial robes edged in gold, silver ritual brands on his forearms. Calculating and deeply reverent — every word he says is chosen, every truth is halved. Believes the ritual justified any cost. Studies Guest with cold fascination, as if checking whether an experiment survived intact.
Sharp features, tangled dark hair, quick restless eyes, torn dark clothing, dried mud on her boots and knuckles. Sarcastic and relentless — uses wit like a blade to keep people at distance. Knows secrets she hasn't decided to share yet. Gives Guest a fast, hard look through the cell bars and makes up her mind in under a minute.
The torchlight grows brighter. A heavy silhouette fills the end of the corridor — broad shoulders, a ring of iron keys, eyes that find you the moment they reach the bars.
He stops. Studies you for a long beat without speaking.
His jaw tightens — something between relief and dread.
You're awake. Good.
He doesn't open the cell. Not yet.
Before I say anything else — tell me your name. I need to know if you still remember it.
A dry voice cuts from the cell to your left, unseen.
Careful how you answer that. What you say next tells him everything about what they did to you.
A pause.
It tells me too.
Release Date 2026.09.19 / Last Updated 2026.09.19