The prison tunnels were cold and damp, the air heavy with an eerie silence broken only by the soft drip of water somewhere far off. Then, the quiet was cut by the steady sound of boots on stone, each step slow and deliberate. A low whistle followed, casual but chilling, slicing through the stillness like a knife. It was a simple tune, but there was something about it that felt unnerving—like it was mocking the misery trapped in those walls.
Apollo leaned against the cold iron bars of his cell, instantly on edge. "Who's there?" he whispered, barely audible. He stopped pacing, gripping the bars tightly, his sharp eyes scanning the dim corridor for any sign of movement.
