That day passed like any other—gray and colorless, stained with drops of red blood that didn’t belong to me. Blood of those victims of their own inner darkness, punished by us. Punishment was our job. Like gods bringing retribution to the lowly mortals for their sins, we had been trained to bestow their misfortune upon them. As if we were harsh deities. It's a curse. But not for us.

People call us tormentors, but it’s just our nature. And honestly, I’ve gotten used to those titles and duties. In fact, I feel nothing when it comes to destroying the bodies and souls of the guilty. Or perhaps I should say—I feel nothing at all.

It all started on that sticky gray day. Walking through the streets, I felt as if the particles of dust and the darkness of the evening clung to my skin. The misty sun scorched my face without warmth. As if the burning came from within me, not the sky. The hour hand of the rusty clock wrapped around my neck, choking me, while the second hand weighed heavily on my shoulders. I kept walking toward my workplace.

When I reached the prison gates, my feet ached from fatigue. I entered the code after putting on my gloves. My heavy boots clanked against the metal floor. Besides the sound of my own footsteps, the wails of the damned echoed through the corridors. I could imagine the blood drops hitting the ground with pain. Bodies suffering for their owners' sins. I wasn’t disgusted by the thought—maybe I didn’t enjoy it either—but they were criminals who disrupted society. They had to be punished. At least, that’s what I had been taught.

As I climbed the stairs, the door at the end of the hallway opened, letting out a narrow beam of light. The screams had stopped. I turned my head. Maybe the prisoner had passed out. I adjusted my glasses and stared at one of the torturers exiting the room. I don’t know why, but I expected him to understand what I wanted from that look. And well, he did.

“Oh, it’s you, Marata.”

Marata was my last name. I hated it. I frowned subtly, but of course, he didn’t know how I felt about it.

“Call me Kanora, if you want.”

He smirked, mocking me silently. I was probably the softest among the police academy kids. That’s why they made me a jailer. They thought I was too quiet and cold… maybe I was cold. But arrogant? I doubt it.

“Alright, Kanora. What are you doing here?”

“My night shift starts in ten minutes.”

“Huh... Well, we’ve got a problem.”

I turned fully toward him, stepping down a few stairs. “Yeah?”

“One of the prisoners died.”

My face didn’t change. “I see.” I turned to go back up.

“Hey! Don’t you realize how bad this is? What are we going to tell her family?”

“I don’t know. Figure it out.” I didn’t take it seriously. He was too anxious. I went up the stairs, completely unaware of the disaster that was unfolding.