A single bare bulb illuminated the damp, cold cell. Mister End chuckled, a dry, rasping sound that seemed to mock the heavy steel door. It was a flimsy barrier; he could have broken free at any time. The lock was old, the mortar crumbling – escape was trivial.
Yet, he sat, a strange stillness in his posture belying the potential for swift action. He possessed the skill, the opportunity, the sheer power to leave. But he didn't. His laughter, echoing in the oppressive silence, held a disconcerting undercurrent of…resignation? The mystery of his continued confinement was far more unsettling than the cell itself.
The pale dawn light, a sliver of brightness slashing through the grimy cell window, momentarily blinded Mister End. Months of shadowed confinement had dulled his eyes. He blinked, the light revealing not just the cracked cell walls but the five figures silhouetted against the weak sun.
The Author Police – their faces grim, their movements precise. Chains, impossibly fine yet undeniably strong, bound him, not to the cell, but to himself; a subtle restraint, a silent command. The jail cell, a broken mockery of its purpose, stood as a testament to his obedience. He didn't resist, didn't even try.
One of the elite members, Sai, a towering figure draped in shadows, gestured towards the heavy iron door. Four others, clad in identical dark garb, flanked Mister End. Their expressions were unreadable, yet their presence radiated authority.
They moved as one, a silent procession, exiting the prison. The path ahead was long and winding, passing through a landscape scarred by countless graves. The air hung heavy with the scent of damp earth and decaying leaves, a chilling reminder of lives ended.
Each tombstone, a silent testament to loss, blurred into a sea of grey under the weak dawn light. Mister End, flanked by his silent escorts, walked amongst them, his steps measured, his gaze fixed on the ground. The journey itself felt like a pilgrimage through a realm of shadows, a prelude to whatever awaited them at their destination. The weight of unseen orders hung heavier than any physical restraint.
"Why are we here?" Mister End questioned the Elite Author Police.
"You can see six graves, they were young people involved in Author Police's loved ones." A sharp, sudden pain jolted Mister End. He stumbled, the impact jarring him to his knees. Dust and dirt exploded around him, a brown cloud momentarily obscuring the grim faces of his escorts.
He tasted blood, a metallic tang mixing with the earthy scent of the graveyard. His head throbbed, a dull ache spreading through his skull. He saw Owl, his face impassive, his hand retracting from the brutal blow. The ground was still smudged with the mark of the impact, a dark stain against the pale earth.
Sai knelt, pointing a gauntleted finger towards a small, freshly turned mound of earth. Six small crosses, crudely fashioned, marked the grave. The whispered words, barely audible above the rustling leaves, spoke of six young children – loved ones of the Author Police.
Mister End looked at the grave, his expression unchanging. There was no flicker of guilt, no hint of remorse in his eyes. The pain in his head was real, the threat palpable, but the children's deaths seemed to register only as another detail in the bleak landscape of his existence.
The chilling indifference in his gaze was far more terrifying than any outward display of emotion. The unspoken threat hung heavy in the air, a chilling message etched in the cold, damp soil, yet he remained unmoved.
Sai's voice, raw with fury, cracked the still morning air. His face, contorted with barely controlled rage, was inches from Mister End's. The words, "Tell me the name of that woman?!" were a strangled roar, each syllable vibrating with barely contained violence. Mister End's gaze remained fixed on something unseen, something only he could perceive.
Sarah. The name hung unspoken, a phantom presence between them. Sai's clenched fist trembled, his knuckles white. His eyes darted wildly, searching for the woman who was clearly visible to Mister End, yet utterly invisible to everyone else. The desperation in his voice, the frantic energy radiating from him, painted a picture of a man driven to the edge of madness by an unseen enemy. The scene pulsed with an unsettling tension, a clash between the tangible and the ethereal.