The sound of metal echoed through the dimly lit corridor—sharp, clanging, repetitive. It was the kind of sound that seeped into the bones, the kind that made even the walls feel cold. Chains dragging, locks shifting, boots stepping with practiced heaviness. Somewhere beyond that metallic chorus came a groan—a door opening, grinding reluctantly as though it detested the duty it was forced to perform.
A man stepped out.
He looked like he was in his thirties, but the exhaustion weighing on his shoulders made it hard to tell. His dark hair was disheveled, strands falling unevenly in front of hollow eyes. His once-fine shirt hung loosely, wrinkled and dull, collar open and torn at the edge. Stubble covered the lower half of his face, but it wasn't stylish—it was the kind of unkempt growth that came from days of not caring. His steps were small, hesitant, and unsteady, but not because he was afraid. He simply looked… lost.
The officer standing beside the door, tall and stern-faced, gave him a shove.
"Move," he said, voice gravelly and emotionless.
The man, Max Brown, didn't respond. He didn't argue, didn't curse, didn't even look irritated. He simply obeyed. His ankles were chained, wrists cuffed, and even his torso restrained with metal bands that locked into place. Every part of him was wrapped in cold steel except his face—and even that looked like it had been drained of anything warm long ago.
Each step he took made the chains rattle—a faint jingle that competed with the louder echo of his cuffs scraping against each other. Max's gaze drifted from side to side, taking in the surroundings with a kind of absentminded daze. The corridor was narrow, built with reinforced concrete walls that trapped every sound. Dim fluorescent lights flickered above, buzzing weakly as though struggling to stay awake.
When he turned his head, his eyes met the rows of inmates lined up along the passage. Each one stood straight, hands behind their backs, posture firm. They weren't saluting like soldiers—they simply straightened their bodies in a subtle gesture of respect. Or fear. Maybe both.
Some swallowed hard when Max passed by. Others bowed their heads. A few watched him with wide, tense eyes. Their expressions varied, but their message didn't:
This man is someone you treat carefully.
Yet Max didn't raise his chin or walk with pride. He didn't glare at them with dominance or smirk with arrogance. He simply continued walking, expression distant, as though he couldn't quite understand why they were reacting this way.
The officer kept a hand firm on Max's arm, guiding him forward until they reached another reinforced gate. With a buzz and a grinding hiss, the gate slid open. The officer nudged him inside, then uncuffed his wrists and unshackled his legs. The metallic bonds fell away, but Max didn't stretch or rub his wrists the way freed inmates often did.
He simply stood there.
A guard stepped forward, clipboard in hand, clearing his throat.
"Any last meal request?"
Max turned his head slightly. His expression softened, and when he spoke, his voice was strangely gentle—soft, melodic, almost soothing. It did not match the harsh environment around him, nor the bleakness of his current fate.
"Yes," he said.
The guard blinked, taken aback for a split second by the contrast of that voice. Max lifted his head fully and met the man's eyes.
"I want form meat," he said quietly. "With sushi. And white dip sous."
The guard nodded, recovering from his surprise. "I'll bring it."
As the guard walked off, the clicking of his boots faded down the hall, leaving Max alone with the echo of his own breathing.
He moved toward the small table placed in the center of the room. The table was metal, scratched, and cold. He sank into the chair slowly, as though unsure whether the structure would support him or whether he even wanted it to.
He stared at the empty surface for a long moment.
His thoughts drifted—backwards, spinning like a malfunctioning reel through memories he didn't want but couldn't let go.
What had brought him here?
Oh… right.
They claimed he killed his grandfather.
The patriarch of the Brown family.
He closed his eyes for a moment, jaw tightening.
His family… they didn't believe him. Not his mother. Not his father. Not even the wife he once trusted—even though she was a cheating wife. Then again, who could blame her? He wasn't the most attentive husband. That didn't make her betrayal hurt any less.
But the disbelief… that was another matter.
His mind wandered deeper.
He remembered walking into his home. The feeling was still fresh—the dull ache he felt from the long day at work, the desire to collapse into bed and be done with the world.
Then he heard sounds from the bedroom—whispers, laughter, the kind that stabbed straight into the chest before the mind even processed the meaning.
He pushed the door open.
And there she was.
His wife.
In the arms of his younger brother.
The betrayal was sharp, raw, ugly. Not just the affair itself but the lack of remorse. No guilt. No fear. No regret. Instead, she had the audacity the pure, cold boldness to pull his younger brother closer, resting a hand on his chest, smirking as though daring Max to react.
Then she kissed him.
Right in front of him.
His younger brother didn't look ashamed either. He grinned the same irritating, smug grin Max had seen during their childhood arguments. Except this one was darker. Meaner. Filled with an arrogance that came from knowing everything would fall in his favor.
Max had walked out.
He didn't scream. He didn't break anything. He didn't demand explanations. He simply left the house, numb and hollow, ignoring the burning in his chest. Then as he drove, still in a daze, he had an accident.
Everything after that was a blur.
The arrest. The accusations. The trial. The sentence.
Max sighed, fingers tapping softly against the cold surface of the table.
He was being executed for a crime he knew nothing about. A murder he didn't commit. A grandfather he loved—even if the old man had been strict and stubborn like all heads of powerful families.
He thought… maybe someone would believe him. Maybe someone would speak up. Maybe his mother, who used to pat his head when he was younger. Maybe his father, who always said he trusted Max to guard the family's honor.
Maybe even his wife—despite everything.
But nobody did.
Not a single one.
Looking back, Max felt an empty laugh rise in his chest.
It would have been better if the family had just looked for him. Asked him where he was. Asked him why he left the house that night.
But no one bothered.
They had already chosen their villain.
He was lost in that melancholy when the door creaked open. The guard returned, holding a tray carefully with both hands. A faint aroma drifted through the air—rich, savory, strangely comforting given the circumstances.
The guard set the tray down in front of Max.
"Last meal," he said simply.
Max looked at the food form meat cooked just the way he used to like it, slices of fresh sushi arranged neatly, and a small dish of white dipping sauce placed beside them.
He smiled.
It wasn't a big smile not wide or bright. More like a gentle curve of the lips, soft and tired, but genuine. The kind of smile from someone who finally accepted something inevitable.
He picked up the chopsticks.
Took the first bite.
Then another.
Eating slowly, savoring each moment, each taste. As though trying to memorize the texture of the world one last time.
His surroundings faded. The cold walls disappeared, the chains forgotten, the whispers of betrayal dimmed.
For a few brief minutes, Max simply ate peacefully.
A condemned man… finding quiet in the simplest of things.