Night inside the bowels of The Iron Citadel was never truly quiet.
The hum of underground turbines continued to spin behind two-span-thick steel walls.
Its subtle vibrations traveled upward, sending a constant tension directly into the soles of their feet.
Hot steam hissed softly from the cylindrical pipes embedded in the ceiling.
Click.
Occasionally, a mechanical valve clicked in the distance. Its rhythm felt almost synchronized with the heartbeats of the prisoners who refused to sleep.
Inside that six-by-six meter cell, Roland Sudrath sat leaning against the cold corner wall.
His eyes were wide open. Completely unclosed.
The diplomat's back was perfectly straight, both hands resting casually on his knees.
Yet beneath that relaxed posture, his ears caught everything.
The footsteps of the guards' heavy boots outside the cell door—which were usually slow and rhythmic—now sounded vastly different.
Tight. Numerous. Hurried.
Tap... tap... clack, clack, clack.
