Women's prison.
The taste of being imprisoned is quite unbearable.
The cell is extremely damp, with a foul smell—a mix of post-rain mustiness combined with the scent of dried blood, further mingled with human excrement, making it even more pungent and nauseating.
The entire space is very dim, for it has not seen daylight in years, and even the air is turbid.
A normal person would not be able to endure a brief stay, let alone those who have been locked here for tens of days or even months; it's sheer torment.
In the evening, when the sunset casts its light on the decaying city walls, the iron gates emit a chilling glow, and two burly instructors, like hellish shura, stand with taut faces, hands behind their backs, full of severity.
Even when the occasional wails and cries drift out from one of the cells, the instructors remain indifferent, expressionless.
This is prison.
Hell on earth.
This seems to be a corner discarded and forgotten by the world.
