The moment Fenrir stepped through the transport gate, a foul stench hit him.
Rot. Sweat. Metal.
His boots landed on cold stone, and before his eyes adjusted, he heard the gates behind him slam shut. No system message. No fanfare. Just the clang of steel.
"Floor 8. Smells like a prison."
He muttered.
His eyes flicked across the room — a dome-shaped chamber lit by flickering lamps, its edges lined with rusted doors and grates. No sky. No wind.
Just concrete and surveillance orbs drifting silently above.
Then they noticed him.
Dozens of eyes, huddled in corners or leaning against walls, turned his way. Ragged uniforms, collars blinking with red light, and gaunt faces hungry for meaning — or distraction.
A group broke off and approached, led by a tall man with a bald head and a mechanical eye.
"New meat. System scan."
The man grunted.
Fenrir raised a brow but said nothing. One of the men stepped forward with a small device, holding it toward him.
