Iron bars screech and collide, their deafening clash reverberating through the dimly lit chamber. A lingering silence ensues, suffocating the air. Within the confines of his jail cell, Cal stands, his hands finally freed from the unforgiving grip of handcuffs. Yet, unyielding steel barricades him, confining him to an oppressive space.

     Cal's gaze roams, landing upon a stone bed that melds seamlessly with the floor, its surface covered with filth and grime. Nowhere does a glimmer of natural light infiltrate. Only darkness lurks within every corner. Cal's eyes ascend, meeting a ceiling that towers high, stretching as if reaching the height of two floors.

     The weight of failure wraps around Cal's corrupted heart, compelling his fists to clench and his teeth to grind. Emotions churn within, threatening to shatter him into fragments. But all he can do is resign himself to the frigid embrace of a cold, bare bed hewn from polished rock devoid of comfort or solace.

     Cal settles on the rock-hard slab and spreads his legs, folding his hands as he hunches his back. Intrusive thoughts, harbingers of death, invade his restless mind. Every mental projection dances with the macabre, whispering tales of murder. Amidst the sea of frustration, the sole spark within him becomes the ember of vengeance. Cal's glare remains fixated on the dirty floor, refusing to divert his gaze as he remains still like a statue contemplating its defeat, lost in silent introspection.

    Even though a decade has passed, Cal's gaze remains locked on the floor, his expression etched with bitterness. His once pristine white shirt and trousers now resemble the untamed fur of a wolf. The jet-black strands of his hair have transformed into a snowy white cascade. A long, fuzzy beard drapes over his chest, concealing his once-defined jawline.

     The year has now jumped to 1829. It has been ten years since Cal last saw the daylight. Two and a half decades have passed since he embarked on the feud he had sworn not to give up on until none of his targets remained. To this day, his thirst for retribution remains unquenched.

     Cal's body jolts upward, a sudden determination coursing through his veins. With the swagger of a marching soldier, he strides forward, planting himself in the centre of his confining cell. He then tilts his head upwards and stares at the ceiling, searching for answers in its distant recesses.

     Across the way, within the opposing cell, two figures stand beside each other, their hunger pangs punctuating the silence. Yet, their brows remain sharply arched, their arms crossing defiantly. Their only aspiration is the sweet taste of freedom, undeterred by the sacrifices it may demand.

     Nestled in the corner of the cell sits Rowan, a man in his 30s. He wears a stark white uniform, its fabric contrasting with his jet-black hair and ink-dark eyes. Crossing his arms, he lowers his head and furrows his brows, deep in thought.

     Beside Rowan stands Joel, a young man who conceals his handsome face behind a grotesque mask. It is not the horror within him that compels this choice, but rather his willingness to wear his true self. Joel turns to face Cal, his gaze penetrating through the empty eye sockets of his mask.

     Joel's slender physique evokes the image of a lifeless tree, yet an allure emanates from his being. His lustrous hair is like the darkest abyss in the cosmos, flowing down like silken strands. Behind the mask, hidden from view, are eyes that shimmer with the hues of autumn leaves, capturing the essence of a fading season. Despite his enchanting charms, his very name echoes with the weight of a reputation as one of the nation's most formidable killers.

     To glimpse Joel's mask is to be transported to the precipice of overwhelming emotions. Adorning his fair visage is a white mask that amalgamates the face of a fox, the mane of a lion, and the antler of an elk. An eerie aura exudes from Joel himself—as if he was forged deep within the bowels of the devil's lair.

"Observe," Joel pointed at Cal, drawing Rowan's attention.

Rowan trailed Joel's finger. "Now, what is he thinking?" he scoffed from his seat in the corner of the cell.

"He's up to his usual antics," Nelson interjected, peering out from the adjoining cell. "Always scheming to find an escape route so he can finish what he started."

"Eh," Rowan stood up and approached the iron bars. "Hey! This is the hundredth time you've tried to escape, and it's never worked before! All you're going to do is get us into more trouble! Hey... are you deaf? Hey!? Hey!!"

"I am certain of what I do," Cal growled, his gaze fixed on the ceiling. "Now, be still."

"Why don't you say that to yourself and be still?" Rowan retorted, placing his hands on his hips, visibly annoyed.

"Because this time, I will escape. And before I leave you all behind, may I at least know your names, unfortunate men?" Cal raised an eyebrow and tightened his lips, glaring at the ceiling.

"...The name's Rowan," he introduced himself.

"And the masked lad?" Cal inquired.

"He's known as Beast Mask," Rowan introduced the silent figure behind the mask, "started wreaking havoc all across Asbranne when he was just fourteen, terrorizing homes and slaughtering families with that chilling mask of his."

Nelson overheard the conversation, his eyes widening. "Ooh," he gasped.

"What's his real name?" Cal wondered, still staring at the ceiling.

"Hush..." Joel placed a finger on the mouth of his mask, signalling for silence.

"...I believe his name is Joel," Rowan revealed.

"Now, listen here, you—" Joel began, puffing out his chest as he approached Rowan.

"Shh! Silence!" Cal's raspy voice cut through the air, silencing everyone into obedience.

     As Cal hushed everyone into silence, he redirected his gaze towards the ceiling. His attention fixated on a vent that had captured his unwavering focus throughout their conversation. Squinting his eyes, he pulled back his lips in concentration, carefully examining the ventilation system. His keen observation skills allowed him to discern the subtle intricacies, such as the faint outlines and minute crevices that hinted at the possibility of a finger-sized opening.

Nelson glanced over at Cal, his eyes following Cal's line of sight. "...Thinking of escaping through that vent?" Nelson remarked sceptically. "Don't even think about it. The ceiling is far too high for you to reach that vent!"

Suddenly, Cal leapt into action, effortlessly reaching the vent and suspending himself from the ceiling.

"Woah," Rowan gasped, raising a brow in surprise.

"Never mind," Nelson rolled his eyes.