Soren lay on his bed tired, staring at the ceiling of his prison cell.
It was a relief to final turn off Blackfield.
However...
The day had not ended the way he expected.
A Soul Mecha pilot was dead.
For all the hatred the prisoners spat at "whities," the entire prison had sunk into a heavy, suffocating silence.
The reason was because Soul Mechas were not just weapons but were monuments.
They were proof of the Empire's absolute dominance over the other world.
The stars in the sky.
To see one fall, and fall so violently, shattered something deeper than pride—hope.
Even the worst criminals understood that.
The prison was quiet enough to hear breathing through the walls or a pin fall to the ground.
Basically, one could say that the mourning hung in the air like dust that refused to settle.
Soren rolled onto his side, his gaze drifting to the dagger beside him.
For a moment, the thought came unbidden.
Should I just restart the day?
