A Prison Cell in Reflynne.
Six silhouettes lounged within the muted glow of the prison chamber, their forms outlined against the pale light spilling from high, narrow windows. The room was stark, its walls lined with reinforced stone, yet the occupants moved and spoke with a casual familiarity that betrayed no sense of true confinement. Despite the labels of "prisoner" that might have been pinned to them, they carried themselves as though the world beyond these walls was merely another stage for their amusement.
"Hey," one voice called, light and teasing, "how long should we wait here?"
"Soon," came another, calm, measured. "It's getting closer… sooner than expected."
A slender silhouette crouched, holding a small object aloft. "Yoh, big bro, check out this item."
The object caught the faint light—a simple mirror, yet the holder's fascination lent it weight beyond its size. "I like this mirror, Zen," another chimed in with a grin. "Can I destroy it?"
"Quiet… brothers… I'm… sleeping…" came a low murmur from the corner, half-threat, half-lazy complaint.
"What are you guys doing? Aren't we prisoners here?" A sharp, impatient voice pierced the low chatter.
"Shut it, Kai."
"Who says we're prisoners here?" another countered, laughter threading through the words.
"Hey, Gai, move your feet away. It smells rotten."
"I can see it," came a distant voice, carrying a confidence that seemed unshakable. "Ostoria in our hands."
The room fell into a momentary pause, the casual conversation simmering beneath a current of anticipation. Then, a distinct sound rang out—the heavy gates at the far end of the corridor were sliding open, echoing against stone with a resonant clang.
"Hey, someone's coming!" one called, jumping slightly to his feet.
"Go back to your own room," another ordered, voice calm but firm.
"Gai, move faster!" came a panicked shout, the urgency in it belying their usual composure.
"Aaaahhh… I'm… trying…" the response was muffled, almost comical in its flustered tone.
"Hey, three-eyes, carry Gai back!"
"Kai is stronger, ask him," another voice suggested, though it held no real authority—more a casual observation.
"I'm in my room now," came a weary reply, accompanied by the sound of footsteps shuffling against stone.
"Hey, newbie, carry him back!"
"Yes, yes," a resigned voice answered, and a moment later the shuffle of bodies and clattering of movement filled the chamber as each scrambled back to their assigned spaces. There was a rhythm to it, almost a game, each motion a choreography they knew well.
Once the prisoners had settled into their cells, a hush fell over the room. Silence stretched, filled only with the faint creak of stone and the distant echo of the still-open gate.
The door at the far end opened, heralding new arrivals. Stepping through the threshold was Kouki Nozomi, the Guildmaster of Ostoria, his presence commanding attention without effort. A few adventurers accompanied him, their eyes sharp, surveying the chamber with practiced precision.
"This is the prison with the highest security," Kouki said, his voice carrying effortlessly through the space, even above the low murmurs of the returning division. "Here are the members of the Suicidal Division."
The prisoners regarded him casually, some leaning against the walls, others seated, legs crossed, expressions unreadable but for the glimmer of mischief in their eyes. There was no fear, no surprise, only an acknowledgment of the order of things. Security had brought authority; authority had brought Kouki; and yet, within this chamber, it felt like the prisoners dictated the rhythm of existence, not the overseers.
Kouki's gaze swept over them once more, firm but not threatening. In the quiet, contained chaos of the prison, he understood the truth: these were not ordinary captives. Their power, their defiance, their willingness to act where others hesitated—these were assets Ostoria could not afford to underestimate.
And so the chamber held its tension, equal parts calm and anticipation, a silent acknowledgment of the unusual equilibrium between captor and captured. Here, in the highest-security cells, the Suicidal Division waited. Not prisoners, not subdued—simply… biding their time.