Episode 2: Cell 214

Mia was still staring at the iron plate fixed to the bars—214—when a sharp voice cut through the corridor.

“What are you doing there?”

She turned so quickly that her shoulder brushed against the cold wall. A police officer stood a few feet away, his expression unreadable beneath the dim yellow light. His heavy boots echoed against the concrete as he approached.

“I—I was just looking around,” Mia said, trying to keep her voice steady. “I wasn’t doing anything. I just… noticed this cell.”

The officer’s eyes flicked briefly toward the dark interior of the room before returning to her. Mia hesitated, then asked the question that had been nagging at her ever since she had stopped in front of it.

“Why is this cell numbered 214?” she asked. “All the others in this corridor start with 1. Why is this one different?”

For a moment, the officer said nothing.

The silence stretched just long enough to make Mia regret asking.

Then he looked away and said flatly, “You’re here to interview an inmate, Miss Luther. That’s what matters.”

His answer did nothing to satisfy her, but before she could press further, he gestured for her to follow.

“The prisoner assigned to you is in this cell,” he said. “His name is DAMIAN DARCURS.”

The name settled heavily in the air.

As they walked closer, the officer continued speaking, his tone clipped and professional, but there was something uneasy beneath it—something Mia caught immediately.

“He was brought here in 2017,” the officer said. “He’s accused of killing a man in an exceptionally brutal manner. The victim’s body was mutilated beyond recognition. According to the case file, Damian acted alone.”

Mia’s fingers tightened slightly around her notebook, but she kept walking, listening carefully.

“He has escaped confinement multiple times,” the officer went on. “And every time he escapes, someone ends up dead. The strange part is…” He paused, his jaw hardening. “He always comes back on his own.”

Mia looked at him.

“Comes back?”

The officer nodded once. “No one knows why.”

A chill ran through her.

“The court hasn’t issued a final judgment yet,” he continued. “Some believe he’s suffering from a severe psychological disorder. Others think he’s simply dangerous in ways they don’t understand.”

He stopped in front of the bars.

Mia swallowed and looked into the darkness of the cell again.

The officer reached for the lock.

“As long as you’re in there, I’ll be standing outside,” he said. “If anything feels wrong, you call me immediately. Do you understand?”

Mia nodded.

The lock clicked open with a metallic snap that echoed down the corridor. Then the officer slowly pushed the door inward. It let out a long, rusty groan, the sound sharp enough to make Mia’s skin prickle.

Inside, the cell was dim and suffocatingly still.

A narrow bed was fixed against the far wall. Sitting on it was a man, his head lowered, his posture unnaturally still. His dark hair was long, tied loosely behind him, though several strands had fallen forward around his face. Even from a distance, there was something unsettling about the way he sat—too calm, too motionless, like he had been waiting for this exact moment.

The officer stepped aside slightly and said, “Damian Darcurs.”

The man didn’t move.

Didn’t look up.

Didn’t even react.

Only silence answered.

The officer glanced at Mia one last time before stepping back toward the door. “I’ll be right outside.”

Mia took a slow breath and entered the cell.

The air inside felt colder than the corridor, heavier somehow, as if the darkness itself had weight. A metal chair stood near the wall. She pulled it forward carefully, the legs scraping faintly against the floor, then placed it a short distance from him. Not too close.

Just enough to talk.

She sat down, opened her notebook, and forced herself to sound calm.

“Hi,” she said. “I’m **Mia Luther**.”

For the first time, the man moved.

Slowly—far too slowly—Damian raised his head.

And looked straight at her.

Mia’s breath caught.

As a criminal psychology student, she had spent years studying facial expressions, behavioral patterns, emotional detachment, psychopathy, trauma responses. She had trained herself to notice things other people missed.

But nothing in her studies had prepared her for the darkness in Damian Darcurs’s eyes.

It wasn’t anger.

It wasn’t madness.

It was something deeper—something buried so far beneath the surface that it felt less like emotion and more like a secret. Something old. Something watching.

Mia forced herself not to look away.

She straightened slightly and continued, “I’m a criminal psychology student. I’m here to conduct an interview for my research assignment. I’d like to ask you a few questions, if that’s alright.”

Before she could say another word, Damian spoke.

“Welcome back, Delphi.”

The world seemed to stop.

Mia stared at him, confused. “Pardon?”

For a second, he only looked at her.

Then he laughed.

It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t wild.

It was worse.

Low, soft, and deeply unsettling—like he knew something she didn’t. Like he had been waiting for her confusion. The sound curled through the room, dark and obsessive, and Mia felt a cold shiver crawl down her spine.

Damian leaned back slightly, his gaze never leaving hers.

“You don’t remember,” he murmured, almost to himself.

Mia gripped her pen harder. “Remember what?”

His lips curved into the faintest smile.

And somehow, that smile frightened her more than his laughter.

“Interesting,” he said softly. “After all this time… you really came back to me with no memory at all.”

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