(Third Person).
Far beneath the stone heart of Duskmoor, past unmarked stairways and iron doors that never opened from the outside, lay the truth the city would never speak of:
Section Nine.
The corridor smelled of cold metal, chemicals, and an undertone of raw, feral musk that clung to every wall like a stain.
Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, pale and harsh, throwing hard-edged shadows onto smooth steel floors.
Here, nothing was accidental.
Nothing was kind.
Beyond the armoured checkpoint, a reinforced passage branched into two: to the left, the surgical theatre, and to the right, the holding cells — deep chambers of stone and steel, built to cage something far stronger than any ordinary prisoner.
And inside those cells, the "specimens" waited.
They weren't fresh captures.
These were werewolves stolen months back: sedated, chained, and studied until even memory itself had started to fray under the weight of fear and poison.
