jail
Klaus stood silently at the entrance of the prison, not far from the rude interrogation room. The interrogation room, a rudimentary cubicle in the prison, was similarly shrouded in darkness. The rough stone walls seem to speak of the vicissitudes of time and the helplessness of being forgotten. Faint lights flickered and flickered and flickered overhead, struggling to bring a glimmer of light into the oppressive space.
Inside the interrogation room, the air seemed frozen, with a pungent musty smell and an even stronger smell of despair and fear. The old tables and chairs seemed to have borne witness to untold secrets and sufferings.
Marx sat with a grim look on his face at the interrogation table, opposite several bound strangers. Their faces were full of nervousness and uneasiness, and their eyes betrayed the dread of an unknown fate.
