The heavy hydraulic elevator groaned as it descended into the salt-crusted bedrock beneath the island, dropping Jules deep into the freezing dark of Tier C.
The air down here always tasted different. It was sterile, dry, and laced with the faint, chemical bitterness of airborne sedatives. Jules leaned his massive, broad-shouldered frame against the cold steel wall of the lift, his arms crossed over his scarred tactical vest. His eyes were half-lidded, fixed on the digital floor indicator as it ticked down into the isolation vaults.
Today was Rotation Day.
For the last seven days, he had been stationed up in the Aviary, managing the tragic, broken minds of the low-security ward. He had spent his week handing out extra blankets, speaking in low, grounding tones to weeping men, and ensuring the facility's pacifist nurses weren't harassed. It was a week that required a slow, quiet patience.
But as the elevator chimed, signaling his arrival at the high-containment block, that patience evaporated. His posture stiffened, his spine straightening into a rigid, military-precise line. He reached up and pulled his blacked-out ballistic helmet down, clicking it into place. The world vanished behind a sheet of flawless, mirrored glass.
Jules stepped out of the lift. The heavy combat boots he wore delivered a slow, rhythmic thud against the concrete floor—a heavy, mechanical cadence that echoed down the long, empty corridor.
The cell block was suffocatingly quiet, lined with transparent, airtight cubes of reinforced polycarbonate. This week, he was assigned to Blackwood's newest acquisition: an Anomalous Threat Variant classified as a Biological Cognitive Hazard.
He walked past the glowing blue diagnostic screens of the empty cells, his gloved hand resting lightly on the matte-black titanium baton hooked to his belt.
As he approached Cell 402, he caught his first glimpse of the inmate through the thick glass.
“Good morning, sunshine,"
Jules says, his voice a flat, sarcastic baritone echoing in the sterile corridor.
