Meanwhile, in the dark, damp underground prison, Gaxa sat in a corner of his cell. The walls were made of cold, rough stone, seeping with moisture that made the air feel heavy and moldy. A single dim light bulb hung from the ceiling, casting long, eerie shadows that seemed to dance around the room. Rats scurried along the floor, their tiny claws clicking against the stone, adding to the sense of decay and neglect. Gaxa's body was a canvas of bruises and cuts, evidence of the brutal treatment he had endured.
The door to the cell creaked open, its rusty hinges groaning in protest. A pair of heavy boots echoed down the hallway, the sound growing louder with each step. Gaxa looked up, his eyes narrowing as he recognized the figure that emerged from the shadows.
