In a city named Nova Veritas, nestled among towering skyscrapers and winding alleyways, life thrives. Despite ample funding for technology, there are still two out of every five parts of the city where there's barely a flicker of light, even at night.
On a tall building, a big screen TV broadcasts a news report detailing a grave crime. The perpetrator, described as having short, unkempt black hair and a handsome face, appears deceptively ordinary. Yet, the severity of the crimes being discussed commands the attention of the entire world. Passersby stop in their tracks, fists clenched, to watch the unfolding news.
"Today marks a momentous occasion as we receive the long-awaited update... Daemon Corvus also know as the Nova Reaper, once celebrated for his artistic brilliance, now faces a litany of charges including murder, attempted murder sexual assault, kidnapping, terrorist acts, massacres, betrayal, treason, and bank robberies," the reporter declared her tone charged with evident outrage. "Despite the extensive scope of his crimes, he has been handed down a sentence of fifteen consecutive life terms, along with an additional five thousand years...to us Daemon stands as a symbol of evil, warranting nothing short of the harshest punishment: death."
...
The next day, situated on the outskirts of Nova Veritas City, stood the prison complex. It was strategically positioned away from the bustling urban center and cites for its protection.
At the same time it was made for escape attempts nearly impossible as it was encircled by miles of desolate wasteland the harsh terrain and constant patrols acted as strong deterrents.
The complex itself was fortified with towering walls topped with razor wire, intended to keep inmates securely confined. Guarded watchtowers dotted the perimeter, manned by armed personnel who maintained unwavering vigilance.
Inside, amidst a sea of variously colored prisoner jumpsuits, ranging from those of seemingly harmless individuals to those of clearly dangerous men the most dangerous were the ones wearing black jumpsuits. Reserved for the most extreme cases, these signified individuals deemed highly hazardous to themselves or others.
Daemon clad in one of these black jumpsuits, walked through the cafeteria with a racing heart. Fear gnawed at him, he felt unwelcome, surrounded by gazes filled with hostility, he didn't know what to do no one wants him beside them while everyone may be looking at him with killing.
However, they all knew they couldn't harm him, there was someone else tasked with that duty. While Daemon cautiously looked for place to sit, whispers and murmurs enveloped him, it was a constant reminder of the dangerous existences within the confines of the prison.
"He's the one they call Nova Reaper, right?"
"Yeah, that's him. The one short one."
"Can you believe the stuff they say he's done? It's messed up, man."
"I heard he's got connections on the outside. That's how he got away with it for so long."
Despite the talks about him Daemon kept his head down, pretending to focus on his food, but every word seeped into his consciousness like poison. He knew he didn't belong here, amongst these hardened criminals who saw him as nothing more than a monster.
Across the room, a group of inmates huddled together, their voices low but filled with a venomous curiosity.
"Hey, you think he's really as bad as they say?"
"Probably worse. You don't rack up fifteen life sentences for nothing."
"I heard he's got a price on his head. Someone's gonna take him out, no doubt about it."
Nearby, a grizzled old-timer chimed in, his voice tinged with bitterness. "You young bucks don't know nothin'. Back in my day, a guy like Daemon would've been taken care of quick. But now? With all this fancy tech and surveillance, ain't nobody can make a move without the whole world knowing'."
The words of the old-timer echoed in Daemon mind, was the grim truth of his situation and he couldn't help but shiver. The world wouldn't mourn his fate; if anything, they wish will come true of his death and instantly rejoice in it, he felt like a pawn in a game of twisted desires.
Daemon gritted his teeth, trying to block out the conversation. He knew he was a target, a walking bullseye in his black jumpsuit out of all the others. But he also knew he couldn't show weakness, not in a place like this.
With a heavy heart, he pushed his untouched tray aside. Appetite had abandoned him in this place. Survival in Nova Veritas Penitentiary demanded a low profile and sealed lips.
As night descended and Daemon returned to his cell, the air hung heavy with silence. No windows on the cold stone quiet walls neither the his cell gate. When he looked around he saw there lay an old man on another bed.
'Who's this old man? Wasn't he here this morning... must be a new arrival,' Daemon speculated, too drained to dwell further.
Lying on his bed Daemon felt as though he layed on jagged rocks, while the old man slumbered peacefully, seemingly unaffected by the harsh conditions.
Why am I even still alive? There has to be a reason
'After all the accusations, the world must surely wish me dead... Mom, Dad, Sis... I'm sorry you got dragged into this.' Daemon thought his last thought before sleep claimed him.
...
While Daemon was asleep, his dream was haunted by relentless flashbacks, each one drenched him in sweat and desperation. In his dream, he repeatedly protested his innocence. "I'm innocent I did nothing wrong I was framed!". From the moment of his arrest to the trial and subsequent imprisonment, he was engulfed by a suffocating sense of being unheard and misunderstood. There was no layer who cam to his defense, everyone around him was gone he was alone only to be surrounded by a Darkness consuming him bit by bit.
Meanwhile, in the silent night of the cell the old man slowly stood up, his body rose from the bed, an eerie grin stretching across his face, revealing gums he stood hovering over Daemon's body.