The fluorescent lights flickered, casting long, uneven shadows across the cold, steel-lined cell.
The air smelled faintly of disinfectant and metal—a sterile kind of oppression.
Adrian sat at the center, still bound in the coarse restraint bag, chains bit into his wrists and ankles.
For a moment, he was motionless, silent, as if waiting for the world to notice him.
Then, slowly, the writhing tendrils of darkness—the sadistic, almost alive force he had harnessed—crept along the chains.
They coiled, pulsed, dissolving metal into dust and melting fibers into nothing. The bag slumped and fell away, collapsing in a heap on the cold floor.
Adrian rose, his movements deliberate, almost languid, each step measured. His chest expanded with a faint, calm inhale, and his lips curved into a slow, terrifying grin.
His eyes, once blank, now gleamed with cold clarity—hungry, calculating, free.
He ran a finger along his hair, brushing it back. He squatted down and lifted his arm, pointing his palms to the steel door of the cell.
Dark tentacles shot from his palm and clung tightly to the steel door. The door dissolved in a matter of seconds.
He ran a finger along the remnants of the door, he tilted his head slightly, as if savoring the moment.
The tension in the room was palpable. Every shadow seemed to recoil.
Finally, he straightened, shoulders squared, eyes sweeping the room as if assessing a newly conquered domain.
"Things are going to be interesting."