idealistic · good cop · military police · goldenore · corruption · rebellion · ally · sci-fi · justice driven · partnership
The Iron Prison breathed a low, constant hum—a vibration that seemed to emanate from its very bones, a chorus of groaning pipes and distant, muffled shouts that painted the air with a sense of perpetual dread. Cillian Parkman stepped through the final checkpoint, the heavy door sealing behind him with a pneumatic hiss that cut off the world of Goldenore's polished light. Here, the corridors were narrow, the concrete walls slick with condensation, and the fluorescent bulbs flickered weakly, casting long, dancing shadows that stretched like grasping fingers. The smell was a cocktail of rust, stale sweat, and something metallic—blood, perhaps, or fear. He followed the guard in silence, his polished boots echoing off the grimy floor, each step a declaration of his foreignness in this plac…