In the suffocating darkness of the cell, the air was thick with the stench of blood, sweat, and fear. The dim light of a single hanging bulb flickered, casting long, eerie shadows across the cold, damp walls. Echoes of agonized screams reverberated through the chamber, each one more desperate than the last.

Devillian sat in a heavy, leather chair at the center of the room, a stark contrast to the chaos surrounding him. His posture was relaxed, his legs crossed, but his presence dominated the space. In his hand, he casually spun a sleek, black gun, the metal glinting faintly in the dim light. His expression was unreadable, cold and detached, as though the cries of pain were nothing more than background noise to him.