u/Mradul_Sharma

A thin slit of morning light cuts through the waiting room, falling across Soul's face as he sleeps upright on a worn couch against the south wall. The room is small—barely four meters by three—its emptiness making it feel even tighter. A heavy metal door occupies the northwest corner, while a broad window, one and a half meters wide and stretching three meters across the east wall, lets in the pale daylight. An empty bookshelf stands abandoned in the southwest corner, its vacant shelves gathering dust. Apart from the couch and the silent furniture, the waiting room is devoid of life, wrapped in a stillness broken only by Soul's slow, steady breathing.

The heavy metal door in the northwest corner flew open with a violent metallic bang, shattering the room's quiet rhythm. A man barged into the cramped space, his presence instantly crowding the small room. He didn't just speak; he barked an order directly at the couch, commanding Soul to wake up.

"Walker 1110!" the man screamed, the designation cutting through the last remnants of Soul's sleep like a blade.

Before Soul could fully shake off the haze, the man was over him, his voice echoing off the bare walls. He ordered Soul to strip away every piece of identity he carried, demanding he give up all his worldly possessions and empty his pockets onto the floor right then and there. The slow, steady breathing that had filled the room a moment ago was gone, replaced by the harsh, demanding reality of the uniform or authority standing over him.

Soul opened his eyes, the haze of sleep vanishing instantly behind a gaze that remained perfectly still. He stood up with a slow, deliberate grace, rising to his full six-foot frame until he was looking straight into the man’s eyes.

"I am but a dead man walking," Soul said, his voice flat and unbothered. "I have no possessions."

To prove it, he turned out his pockets. They hung limp and hollow—already empty.

The man didn't back down. Instead, he took a heavy step forward, closing the distance until he towered a full foot over Soul, using his massive height to cast a suffocating shadow.

"I said, all of your possessions, Walker," the man growled, his voice dropping into a dangerous, low register.

Without a word, Soul’s expression remained stoic. He reached down and smoothly stripped away his clothes, letting them drop to the floor until he stood entirely naked before the giant. Though his physique was flawlessly built—sharp, athletic, and defined—it wasn't his strength that commanded the room. It was the horror etched into his skin.

Every single inch of his body that had just been hidden beneath his clothes was a roadmap of violence. Deep cut wounds crisscrossed his flesh, overlapping one another. By the look of the dark, jagged lines, not a single one of them had ever been stitched, bandaged, or treated; they had simply been left open to clot, fester, and heal on their own into a armor of raw scar tissue.

"Finally!" The man’s laughter boomed, a coarse, jarring sound that echoed off the cold concrete walls. "Follow me, kid. By the end of this, you’ll either be a man... or you’ll be dead."

"Dead is what I am here for," Soul replied, his tone entirely devoid of fear.

The man turned on his heel and strode out through the heavy metal door. Soul followed closely behind, stepping into a narrow, two-meter-wide hallway. The corridor was oppressive and claustrophobic, forcing them through two sharp right turns and a sudden left before the confinement abruptly shattered.

They emerged into a breathtaking, ten-story cylindrical reception hall. The sheer scale of the architecture was dizzying. Suspended from the distant ceiling a hundred feet above was a colossal chandelier, cascading down like a frozen waterfall of crystal and iron, plunging through the empty space to hover just above the second-floor level.

In the dead center of the vast floor sat a solitary reception desk, dwarfed by the immense volume of the room. Behind it rose a monumental staircase. At its base, the steps sprawled out a massive five meters wide, anchoring the structure to the floor like the roots of a giant tree. As the staircase swept upward, splitting and winding to connect the first six levels, it gradually tapered, shrinking to a narrow two meters by the time it met the upper balconies.

A thin slit of morning light cuts through the waiting room, falling across Soul's face as he sleeps upright on a worn couch against the south wall. The room is small—barely four meters by three—its emptiness making it feel even tighter. A heavy metal door occupies the northwest corner, while a broad window, one and a half meters wide and stretching three meters across the east wall, lets in the pale daylight. An empty bookshelf stands abandoned in the southwest corner, its vacant shelves gathering dust. Apart from the couch and the silent furniture, the waiting room is devoid of life, wrapped in a stillness broken only by Soul's slow, steady breathing.

The heavy metal door in the northwest corner flew open with a violent metallic bang, shattering the room's quiet rhythm. A man barged into the cramped space, his presence instantly crowding the small room. He didn't just speak; he barked an order directly at the couch, commanding Soul to wake up.

"Walker 1110!" the man screamed, the designation cutting through the last remnants of Soul's sleep like a blade.

Before Soul could fully shake off the haze, the man was over him, his voice echoing off the bare walls. He ordered Soul to strip away every piece of identity he carried, demanding he give up all his worldly possessions and empty his pockets onto the floor right then and there. The slow, steady breathing that had filled the room a moment ago was gone, replaced by the harsh, demanding reality of the uniform or authority standing over him.

Soul opened his eyes, the haze of sleep vanishing instantly behind a gaze that remained perfectly still. He stood up with a slow, deliberate grace, rising to his full six-foot frame until he was looking straight into the man’s eyes.

"I am but a dead man walking," Soul said, his voice flat and unbothered. "I have no possessions."

To prove it, he turned out his pockets. They hung limp and hollow—already empty.

The man didn't back down. Instead, he took a heavy step forward, closing the distance until he towered a full foot over Soul, using his massive height to cast a suffocating shadow.

"I said, all of your possessions, Walker," the man growled, his voice dropping into a dangerous, low register.

Without a word, Soul’s expression remained stoic. He reached down and smoothly stripped away his clothes, letting them drop to the floor until he stood entirely naked before the giant. Though his physique was flawlessly built—sharp, athletic, and defined—it wasn't his strength that commanded the room. It was the horror etched into his skin.

Every single inch of his body that had just been hidden beneath his clothes was a roadmap of violence. Deep cut wounds crisscrossed his flesh, overlapping one another. By the look of the dark, jagged lines, not a single one of them had ever been stitched, bandaged, or treated; they had simply been left open to clot, fester, and heal on their own into a armor of raw scar tissue.

"Finally!" The man’s laughter boomed, a coarse, jarring sound that echoed off the cold concrete walls. "Follow me, kid. By the end of this, you’ll either be a man... or you’ll be dead."

"Dead is what I am here for," Soul replied, his tone entirely devoid of fear.

The man turned on his heel and strode out through the heavy metal door. Soul followed closely behind, stepping into a narrow, two-meter-wide hallway. The corridor was oppressive and claustrophobic, forcing them through two sharp right turns and a sudden left before the confinement abruptly shattered.

They emerged into a breathtaking, ten-story cylindrical reception hall. The sheer scale of the architecture was dizzying. Suspended from the distant ceiling a hundred feet above was a colossal chandelier, cascading down like a frozen waterfall of crystal and iron, plunging through the empty space to hover just above the second-floor level.

In the dead center of the vast floor sat a solitary reception desk, dwarfed by the immense volume of the room. Behind it rose a monumental staircase. At its base, the steps sprawled out a massive five meters wide, anchoring the structure to the floor like the roots of a giant tree. As the staircase swept upward, splitting and winding to connect the first six levels, it gradually tapered, shrinking to a narrow two meters by the time it met the upper balconies.

A thin slit of morning light cuts through the waiting room, falling across Soul's face as he sleeps upright on a worn couch against the south wall. The room is small—barely four meters by three—its emptiness making it feel even tighter. A heavy metal door occupies the northwest corner, while a broad window, one and a half meters wide and stretching three meters across the east wall, lets in the pale daylight. An empty bookshelf stands abandoned in the southwest corner, its vacant shelves gathering dust. Apart from the couch and the silent furniture, the waiting room is devoid of life, wrapped in a stillness broken only by Soul's slow, steady breathing.

The heavy metal door in the northwest corner flew open with a violent metallic bang, shattering the room's quiet rhythm. A man barged into the cramped space, his presence instantly crowding the small room. He didn't just speak; he barked an order directly at the couch, commanding Soul to wake up.

"Walker 1110!" the man screamed, the designation cutting through the last remnants of Soul's sleep like a blade.

Before Soul could fully shake off the haze, the man was over him, his voice echoing off the bare walls. He ordered Soul to strip away every piece of identity he carried, demanding he give up all his worldly possessions and empty his pockets onto the floor right then and there. The slow, steady breathing that had filled the room a moment ago was gone, replaced by the harsh, demanding reality of the uniform or authority standing over him.

Soul opened his eyes, the haze of sleep vanishing instantly behind a gaze that remained perfectly still. He stood up with a slow, deliberate grace, rising to his full six-foot frame until he was looking straight into the man’s eyes.

"I am but a dead man walking," Soul said, his voice flat and unbothered. "I have no possessions."

To prove it, he turned out his pockets. They hung limp and hollow—already empty.

The man didn't back down. Instead, he took a heavy step forward, closing the distance until he towered a full foot over Soul, using his massive height to cast a suffocating shadow.

"I said, all of your possessions, Walker," the man growled, his voice dropping into a dangerous, low register.

Without a word, Soul’s expression remained stoic. He reached down and smoothly stripped away his clothes, letting them drop to the floor until he stood entirely naked before the giant. Though his physique was flawlessly built—sharp, athletic, and defined—it wasn't his strength that commanded the room. It was the horror etched into his skin.

Every single inch of his body that had just been hidden beneath his clothes was a roadmap of violence. Deep cut wounds crisscrossed his flesh, overlapping one another. By the look of the dark, jagged lines, not a single one of them had ever been stitched, bandaged, or treated; they had simply been left open to clot, fester, and heal on their own into a armor of raw scar tissue.

"Finally!" The man’s laughter boomed, a coarse, jarring sound that echoed off the cold concrete walls. "Follow me, kid. By the end of this, you’ll either be a man... or you’ll be dead."

"Dead is what I am here for," Soul replied, his tone entirely devoid of fear.

The man turned on his heel and strode out through the heavy metal door. Soul followed closely behind, stepping into a narrow, two-meter-wide hallway. The corridor was oppressive and claustrophobic, forcing them through two sharp right turns and a sudden left before the confinement abruptly shattered.

They emerged into a breathtaking, ten-story cylindrical reception hall. The sheer scale of the architecture was dizzying. Suspended from the distant ceiling a hundred feet above was a colossal chandelier, cascading down like a frozen waterfall of crystal and iron, plunging through the empty space to hover just above the second-floor level.

In the dead center of the vast floor sat a solitary reception desk, dwarfed by the immense volume of the room. Behind it rose a monumental staircase. At its base, the steps sprawled out a massive five meters wide, anchoring the structure to the floor like the roots of a giant tree. As the staircase swept upward, splitting and winding to connect the first six levels, it gradually tapered, shrinking to a narrow two meters by the time it met the upper balconies.