Pitch-black darkness.
Suffocating dampness. And the stench of damp mold and rusting iron.
These were the only things left in the world of "Inmate Zenith."
The solid concrete cell measured a mere two-by-two meters. There were no windows, only a small, barred air vent positioned far out of reach. The weak sliver of light that managed to bleed through was barely enough to distinguish whether it was day or night outside.
The former billionaire heir. The former flawless, untouchable student council president.
Today, he was reduced to nothing more than a breathing corpse.
His once powerful physique was now severely emaciated, his ribs protruding sharply against his pale skin. The hair that used to be immaculately styled hung in a long, matted, filthy mess over his face. Those light eyes—eyes that once gleamed with frightening intelligence were now deeply hollow, glassy, and completely devoid of sanity.
Zen sat curled into a tight ball in the darkest corner of the cell.
