The woman stepped into the sterile room, her heels clicking against the composite floor. Without a word, she sat down, flicked her wrist, and activated the small device on her watch. A soft chime followed, and a holographic screen shimmered into being before her—a 3D projection cast in pale blue light.
The image displayed a young man of Eastern descent. His eyes were pitch black, deep and empty like an uncharted abyss of space—so deep that even his once-handsome, sunlit features seemed shadowed by something far darker. Beneath the image ran a set of data lines: name, age, ID code, and various classifications. The woman barely glanced at them. She had read this file more times than she could count. And besides—the man in question was sitting right in front of her.
"Arata, correct?"
Across the table, the man restrained in a reinforced straitjacket gave a low, dry laugh. The restraints were tight, crisscrossing his torso and limbs in layers of synthetic fiber and steel thread, leaving only his head exposed. His face was hidden behind an untamed beard, and his hair was a matted mess that clung to his temples—an unrecognizable shadow of the man in the file.
"Tell me," Arata said with a faint smirk, "is there anyone else in your company's prison who gets this kind of treatment? Or am I just special?"
The woman didn't rise to the bait. She brushed a strand of violet hair behind her ear, her movements precise, professional, and devoid of warmth. "You can call me Nephiel," she said evenly. "I'm here to conduct your final record before the execution. I'd appreciate your cooperation. In return, I might be able to get you something close to the breakfast of your choice."
Arata fell silent for a moment, his eyes distant—as if searching for something that wasn't there anymore. Then, softly, he exhaled a sigh.
"The breakfast I want," he murmured, "probably doesn't exist in this era anymore."