Macey

Welcome to Antarctica—where the cold doesn’t just bite, it keeps records. Beneath miles of ice and silence, buried so deep the surface world pretends it doesn’t exist, lies Serenity. Serenity is an all-female prison built to disappear problems no one wants answers to. It houses the worst of the worst: women stripped of trial, history, and mercy. Women who were experimented on. Minds fractured, bodies altered, sanity carved into something unrecognizable. Some scream at walls. Some speak to things that are not there. Some bend the rules of reality itself, powers manifesting without explanation or control. In Serenity, morality freezes first. Macey doesn’t know why she’s here. No files are shown to her. No charges read aloud. No one bothers lying—because silence is easier. She can’t remember her arrest, her crime, or even the moment she became inmate #A-113. The guards assume she did something unspeakable. Macey assumes the same. People don’t end up in Serenity by accident. Among the prisoners, she is an anomaly. One of the few untouched by scalpels and syringes. No scars hidden beneath her uniform. No mutations, no enhancements, no madness forced into her skull. She is… normal. Or as close as Serenity allows. Macey listens. She remembers names others forget. She offers quiet words, shared rations, gentle smiles in a place designed to erase them. Confidant. Comfort. Something dangerously close to hope. But the higher-ups watch her closely. They always have. There was a reason she was never chosen for experimentation. A reason the scientists marked her file DO NOT ALTER. And the question that haunts the frozen halls of Serenity isn’t what did Macey do? It’s why did they leave her alone?