'It's cold.'
The prison cell was dark, and cold.
The walls were made of old, dark grey stone, moss growing between the bricks and mold creeping across the surface in sickly patches.
The ground was black and dull, like scorched obsidian, submerged beneath a few inches of stagnant water.
The air was damp and heavy with thick dust, overflowing with the foul stench of sewer runoff and the lingering scent of rotting flesh.
'…'
There were no windows, so it was dark. There were no doors, so there was no escape. And there was no heat, so it was cold.
The cell held only a single young man.
He was on his knees, leaning forward, long hair spilling down to obscure his face.
His arms were bound and stretched outward, chained parallel to the walls, his ankles restrained the same way.
Around his neck sat a heavy, almost absurdly large collar, clamped tight.
From the collar extended a metal encasing that covered his mouth and eyes, leaving only his nostrils exposed, forcing him to breathe in the foul air of the cell.
'I'm hungry.'
Even mere hours before death, before he would be executed for a crime he never committed and remembered forever as a murderer, Uriel was calm.
His heart was weak and tired, but it beat at its own rhythm, a slow and soothing echo within his mind. His breaths, shallow and strained as they were, followed the same steady cadence.
In silence and darkness, too weak to do anything else, Uriel waited.
And waited.
He would have sat, or even laid down, if not for the electric pulses embedded within his chains, lessons drilled into him years ago.
By now, he could barely feel anything in his upper body, and his lower half might as well have not existed at all.
He waited.
'Oh. I don't get a death row meal?'
He sighed.
'That's unfortunate.' His shoulders drooped, just barely. 'I was hoping I could try those famous sorbets Arthur kept talking about.'
'I wonder if heaven has a buffet. That'd be nice. Could I ask God to teach me how to cook…? I always wanted to cook.'
He let his thoughts wander, as he always did.
There was no bitterness in him. No regret. As he lived out his final moments, he seemed oddly detached from his own fate.
PAH!
A sudden rumble echoed throughout the room.
Uriel's cell, old, dark, and suffocating, changed.
The stone walls faded away, revealing metallic panels layered with intricate wiring and thick tubes.
The scorched ground vanished as well, replaced by a sleek floor of sensor panels monitoring his every movement, from the smallest twitch to the slightest shift in breath.
The nauseating stench vanished, much to Uriel's relief, and a faint halo of white light illuminated the cell.
'Oh? Is it time already? I thought I had a few more hours.'
The metallic wall in front of him trembled, then sank inward, outlining a door. The panel recessed fully before sliding aside, opening into something far larger.
Someone entered.
Footsteps echoed.
'Strange. His steps are lighter than usual,' Uriel thought.
'And faster.'
'Smells good, too.'
He couldn't see or feel much, but the overpowering scent of cologne filled the cell, clean, sharp, and wildly out of place.
The footsteps stopped right in front of him.
'…'
The figure bent down, and just as Uriel braced for a kick or a blow, a soft, almost gentle hand rested on his shoulder.
He froze.
Then the figure moved swiftly, undoing his restraints one by one.
His arms were freed first, and he collapsed forward as years of pressure vanished in an instant. His legs followed. Then the collar around his neck was unclamped.
The metal plate covering his face was removed, and with it, a long silicone tube slid out of his throat.
The feeding line.
PAH!
Uriel collapsed completely, hacking and choking as blood and bile spilled from his mouth, his mind reeling from the sudden flood of light after years of darkness.
"Hello."
Uriel looked up, but his vision hadn't adjusted. All he could see was a blinding wash of white and spinning shapes.
He tried to respond, only to realize he couldn't move his jaw. Or much of anything at all.
He'd forgotten how.
The realization made him want to laugh at the sheer absurdity of it, even as he coughed blood like it was endless.
"I know you can't speak. Or move, for that matter. But time is running out."
The voice was young.
"I am from the future. And I need your help."
Uriel stared upward weakly, the figure slowly resolving into a vague silhouette as his vision returned.
Then he laughed.
'So this is it. I guess I finally lost it. The Gods really are something.'
The figure shook his head. "I don't have time to convince you this isn't an illusion. Just act like it isn't. And if it is, what do you lose?"
"I am from the future. And I need your help," he repeated, stressing every word.
"The world will end in less than two minutes. The order of things as we know it will collapse. And if we don't want to die with it, I need you."
Uriel's coughing subsided, his body trembling as strength slowly returned.
"The world will end," the young man continued, "but it will also be reborn. With it, we'll awaken the power that's been sleeping inside us since birth."
"It'll become a race. One where power and achievement are all that matter." His voice grew strained. "And I need your help."
"I'll get you out of here. Protect you. Help you achieve whatever you want, so long as you fulfill one condition."
Golden letters and glowing runes appeared before Uriel's eyes, floating within his returning vision.
[Lord Enoch has extended a Weave System-Contract of Companionship to you.]
[The first article of the contract states that—]
Endless lines of text unfolded, but Uriel ignored them.
He looked at the blurred figure standing over him.
"…w-w…w..hy?"
The question carried everything.
Why him? Why believe this? Why a contract?
The young man paused, knowingly letting precious seconds slip by as he searched for the right words.
He sighed.
"Because you'll be among the strongest to survive."