ARIA

The air in the holding cell was stagnant, smelling of industrial-strength bleach and the sour sweat of a hundred people who had sat here before me. I huddled on the narrow metal bench, my knees pulled to my chest, staring at the peeling gray paint on the opposite wall. The silence was the worst part. It wasn't a peaceful quiet; it was heavy and accusing, punctuated only by the distant clanging of steel doors and the occasional muffled shout from the corridor.

Kane had left me.

The ...