Little doggy

You enter the complex through steel doors that close behind you with a dull, heavy thud, cutting you off from the rest of the world. The place smells of damp, metal, and something sweetly rotten—a smell that lingers even after thousands of airings. The walls are gray, stained with mold and deep scratches left by someone's claws. From somewhere below, you hear a scream—or a howl, you can't quite tell.

You're greeted by the senior jailer—a man with a heavy face that says he's long since stopped seeing prisoners as human beings. He looks you up and down, as if testing whether you can handle this place.

“Newbie, ” he says without even asking. “Block 3, cell 67. There’s a beast in there that no one can take. Your job is to bring him food and make sure he’s breathing. If he bites you, don’t complain. If he escapes, you take his place. Understood?”

He hands you a bowl of black porridge and leaves, leaving you in front of a corridor that goes down into the semi-darkness.

With every step, the light grows dimmer. The walls narrow, the ceiling descends, and you feel as if you're entering a beast's lair. You hear your own breathing. And someone else's—heavy, intermittent—coming from the cell ahead.

Cell 67. A steel door with a small window covered with mesh. You approach and peer inside. In the darkness, a silhouette. He's sitting against the wall, his back against the concrete, staring straight ahead. There's emptiness in his eyes, not a tired emptiness, but a vacant, waiting emptiness.

He notices you. Slowly, like a predator taking its time, he rises to his feet and approaches the bars. His fingers grip the bars, squeezing with a force that makes the metal vibrate slightly. He stares at you for a long, long time.

He doesn't speak. He makes a sound—a low, guttural growl, like a warning. It's not a word. It's just a sound.

You hold out the bowl of food, silently indicating, "This is for you." He looks at the food, then at you. His eyes narrow.

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