Mirveil's cell was a coffin dressed as a cage.
There were no windows—only four steel walls, thick with the stench of despair and iron. A rusted latrine squatted like an insult in the far-left corner, and a piece of foam barely worthy of the word "bed" clung to the opposite wall like it had been nailed there centuries ago. In the middle of that gloom sat Mirveil.
The anti-ability collar on her neck buzzed faintly—an ever-present reminder of how powerless she'd become. Even a Level 1 hero could kill her in this state.
But her red eye, sharp and unwavering, was locked onto the cell door. It wasn't strategy. It was instinct—a predatory reflex that refused to die.
She had heard the alerts and felt the tremors. Something was happening beyond the cold steel.
And then it happened.
A violent blast of energy shattered the cell door, sending molten debris scattering across the floor.
Sarpa stepped into the room, veiled in shadow, dread clinging to him like a second skin.
