In the cold, damp basement of the dark prison, the air was thick with the stench of mold and rust. The dim, flickering lightbulb hanging from the ceiling cast long, eerie shadows along the grimy concrete walls, each shadow seeming to dance with malicious intent. The faint sound of dripping water echoed through the corridors, creating a rhythm that matched the heavy, labored breathing of the man chained to the floor.
Gaxa, the once proud emperor, now a broken figure, was bound tightly in heavy iron chains. His wrists and ankles were rubbed raw, the flesh beneath them bruised and bloodied. His clothes, once regal and pristine, were now torn and stained, hanging from his gaunt frame in ragged strips. He knelt on the cold, hard floor, his body slumped forward in exhaustion and despair. His head hung low, his tangled hair obscuring his face, which was now etched with the deep lines of suffering.
