POV: Logan The prison gate didn’t creak. It hummed. Low. Mechanical. Indifferent. Steel sliding over steel. The sound of something opening that had never cared whether it held monsters or men. The guards walked him out without speaking. He didn’t rush. Didn’t hesitate. Didn’t look back. Handcuffs locked around his wrists. Cold metal against inked skin. The tattoos at his neck had faded slightly over the years, but they were still there — sharp lines disappearing beneath the collar of prison-issued gray. His shoulders were broader than when he went in. Prison had aged him, yes — carved deeper lines into his face — but it hadn’t weakened him. If anything, it had sharpened him. They led him into the white processing room. Too bright. Too sterile. Too artificial. He sat when told. Across the metal table, a senior officer adjusted his collar, trying not to stare. “Name.” The officer’s voice was steady. Barely. “Logan Walterson.” Not loud. Not aggressive. Just deliberate