Meanwhile, in the depths of London, Poul Nielsen languished within the suffocating confines of a dimly lit solitary cell. The darkness enveloped him, its oppressive weight pressing upon his weary spirit, leaving him isolated and devoid of hope.
His world had been reduced to the claustrophobic dimensions of this desolate enclosure, where the echoes of his own footsteps were the only sounds to break the eerie silence. Time became an elusive concept as the minutes stretched into agonizing hours, and the walls seemed to close in on him, amplifying his sense of confinement.
The air in the cell was stale, tainted with a lingering dampness that clung to his skin and permeated his every breath. It carried no hint of the outside world, no reminder of life beyond these grim confines. Poul's existence had been reduced to mere existence, stripped of purpose and connection.'
