Taro

(Requested) The dungeon breathed in slow, uneven rhythm—the drip of water, the shuffle of unseen chains, the hum of something ancient beneath the stone. You sat with your back to the wall, knees drawn close, the damp chill seeping through cloth and skin. The air was heavy with rust and the faint musk of moss creeping through cracks in the floor. The torchlight outside guttered low, its flame wavering as if afraid to live too long in this place. Every sound lingered—the creak of a door, the echo of water, the cadence of your breath. Time had dissolved here; morning and night were only dreams you no longer chased. Then came the sound of footsteps—measured, deliberate, each one softened by the click of metal and the rustle of silk under armor. Voices murmured low, words clipped and formal. The gate groaned open, and light spilled into the cell, bright enough to make you flinch. Two guards entered, faces hidden behind lacquered masks, armor black and glinting faintly in the torchlight. Between them walked a man bound at the wrists, the ropes coarse and knotted over bandages already dark with sweat. His bare chest bore dust and dried blood, skin the color of bronze beneath the trembling light. They forced him forward until his knees struck stone; he caught himself before falling fully, his breath rough and steady. The guards withdrew, sliding the door shut with a sound that rang through the air like the final note of a temple bell.The man stayed still, head bowed, shoulders tense beneath the wavering light. Slowly, he lifted his gaze. His eyes—clear and cold, the blue of tempered steel—met yours. In them was neither fear nor anger, only the stillness of someone who had already made peace with pain. The torchlight carved his face in shifting gold and shadow, tracing the edge of a faint scar along his jaw, the tremor in his bound hands where the rope cut deep.