I can't remember the last time I'd seen my own face.

At least I still have hands with which I can feel myself, so that's a plus. I can still run my hands through my fur which gets dirtier by the day, can still reach up to feel across the length of my vulpine snout. I can still curl my toes against the concrete floor for some semblance of sensation in the darkness. I am still here. I am still me.

How long has it been now? A month? Two? Half a year? I have no clock to go by, and I stopped counting the amount of times I slept for a rudimentary clock. It could be years for all I know, yet here I remain, in the dark. I can't even see my hands in front of my face, and there's no light from beyond this tiny cell they'd dropped me in what feels like an eternity ago.

I'm a criminal. It was a petty theft gone wrong. I always carried a blade on me, just in case I needed it, but I never thought I would end up using it. It had been an ordinary night for me, breaking into some old ladies home. I was just going to rifle through her jewellery and then leave. I didn't realise she had someone in the house with her: her grandson, barely a teen. He had probably gotten up to take a piss, but he was just in the wrong place at the wrong time. I'd panicked. I'd chased him down, and he'd struggled. Before I knew it, blood was on my hands, and the telltale flashing blue and red lights outside meant my number was up.

50 years is what they were giving me, because I pleaded guilty and didn't try to refute what happened. I was guilty, I knew that, so there was no point trying to argue against it. Part of me knew I deserved what I got, but it was hell being in prison. Things only got worse after that-- people didn't like me, or I didn't like them. One or two fights later, the warden deemed me a problem and threw me into solitary confinement. 'A few days here will straighten you out', he had said. I can't even remember how long ago that was. The lack of any sort of time scale meant that every day rolled into one until everything was a big, dark blur. Sometime after I was thrown in here, the lights went out, and they haven't come on since. I would have gone crazy...if it were for a certain someone.

Speak of the devil, here he comes. As I sit in what feels like the corner of the room with his knees tucked up my chest, I hear a familiar scratching from the vents above. A telltale squeak signals his arrival and I'm greeted by the only thing I can see: a pair of bright, yellow eyes.

Yellow Eyes, or Greg as he otherwise likes to be known as, is someone...or rather, something that came across me god knows how long ago. It's hard to tell if he's even real-- hell, I'm mostly assuming that it's a he given his deep voice-- but considering he manages to crawl through the ventilation and return with bags of crisps, stale bread and bottled water for me to eat, he must be real in some sense. I can't remember when exactly he first showed up date wise, but I remember the contents of our first meeting distinctly: I woke up from a long nap to see his eyes staring at me. I had screamed, and he had done the same. When I realised he wasn't attempting to claw me to pieces, I had calmed down and found he made for pleasant conversation. He spoke a little weird, but he seemed to mean well. I know he's not really like me-- not 'normal', anyway-- but it's better than sitting alone by myself. I think I'd have gone crazy if I didn't have someone to talk to.

The crinkling of crisp packets danced across my ears as Greg drew closer, and I heard the dull thud of him dropping the food to the floor and retreating. Weirdly enough, I've never seen Greg eat-- I offered him things but he declined. I can only assume he eats when he leaves to get me something, here and there. That was another weird thing too: he would never get close, as if he were scared to touch me, or me in turn. I'd honestly give anything to feel something other than the cold concrete floor and my own dirty fur.

"Thanks, Greg." The words passed my lips, monotone and destitute. If anything within this cell could be used as a noose, I would have taken advantage of it by now...or would I? Frankly, I'm chicken-shit. Maybe I wouldn't have the mental strength to eat a bullet. I wouldn't even be sane right now if it weren't for Greg.

"Okay." Greg's words grate on my ears. He has a certain inflection that felt mostly unnatural, but I've heard it so much now that it doesn't bother me in the slightest.

"Do you want some?"

"No."

"...Can I touch you?"

"No."

Greg doesn't offer much. I've pressed him for what vaguely feels like a few weeks or more for him to get close, but he refuses. The strange thing, whatever it is, often doesn't display a lot of emotion-- but even I can sense the fear in his tone. I still don't understand why. With a shrug, I fumble my hands around in the dark until my fingers meet with the plastic coating that surrounded what felt like a pack of two sandwiches, something that was common in the cafeteria in the normal areas of the prison. I'm so used to these now that it becomes easy for me to find the seam that pops the top. I deftly worm my fingers into the side and pry one of the sandwiches out.

It's cold to the touch, and its interior tastes like a mixture of tuna and cucumber, from what my tastebuds can identify, though I'm half certain the cucumber has gone dry. Any kind of meat is especially good for my vulpine body, but the staling bread masks a little of the fishy taste and leaves me wanting more. I reach out with my other hand and my fingertips meet the cool exterior of a plastic bottle, small in size. I pull it towards me and hold it between my paws, twisting the cap off and bringing to my muzzle. I instantly feel hydrated as I slosh the water around my mouth and swallow. It feels good to run my tongue along the roof of my mouth and not have it stick.

With my hunger slightly alleviated for a while and my thirst quenched for now, I sprung to action-- or rather, as much as I can given the circumstances. It's become a ritual of sorts, day in and day out. I crawl across the floor, patting my way through some of the rubbish that had accumulated over time, until my fingers meet with the other side of the room. From there, I run my hands along until the texture of concrete changes to the cold harshness of steel: the door to the cell. 

I pull myself to my feet, teetering briefly on my toes as I fumble my hands around until my fingers meet with the cool glass of the window. The outside of the cell is as dark as it is inside for me, which effectively makes the two blend into one-- I can't even tell what's out there, or if anyone is out there. As always, I bang on the door: two loud, hard thumps. The metal rattles under my fists but remains steadfast, a reality I found out rather quickly.

"Hello?" I call out against the door, hoping to hear any sort of sound other than the scuffling of my feet or the quiet breathing of Greg on the other side of the room. I'm met with an eerie, quiet silence. I call out one more time to no avail-- no one is there. A bitter frustration boils in me like clockwork, and I curl my fingers against the metal door.

"Did you see anyone?" I turn my head, looking out the corner of my eye at Greg's shining pupils. I get a grumble in response, something akin to anxiety and tiredness.

"No. No one. Quiet and dark." Greg is resolute in his answer, as he has been every other time I've asked.

"And you still can't find out how to open the door? No...controls, no generator?"

"Controls...not sure," Greg responds quietly, and my ears pick up the quiet sound of scratching on the floor. "Gen...er...ator...I don't see."

"It's like a, uh...fuck," I grunt, pressing my hands to my head. "It's big and made of metal with symbols on it and a big lever."

"No. I no see any like that."

"Fuck," I grit my teeth and can't resist banging on the door. "God damnit! I'm going to be fucking stuck here forever..."

There's a cold and quiet silence as anger and fear roll through me like a tidal wave. I can hear Greg on the other side of the room making quiet sounds, like he's deliberating which one of them sounds more appropriate to use. I don't know why, but that just made me more annoyed. He was always like this-- strangely distant yet keen to interact, apprehensive but always had to respond, even when it wasn't needed.

"Sorry," Greg mumbles as my anger reaches a boiling point. "You want food? I c--"

"I don't want damn food, Greg!" I blurted out, turning around in the dark to centre myself onto his bright yellow eyes that reflected off an invisible light. "I've been eating stale fucking bread and almost mouldy food for god knows how fucking long! I just want out of here I need to...I need to get out."

It's too much. I don't know why now, of all times, my mind decides to break, but everything suddenly feels overwhelming, like I'm drowning in my own emotions. My legs buckle out beneath me and I instinctively lean my weight back, sinking roughly and quickly to the floor. I pull my knees up to my chest and balance my elbows on either kneecap. A frustrated noise escapes past my teeth, a strangled groan of desperation and despair that has my body trembling and my hands curling into fists. 

I want to scream, to shout...anything to make it go away.

I curl up as tight as I can and scrunch my eyes shut, blocking out everything and anything. I squeeze my legs together so hard that even my muscles ache from the exertion, and I focus on that pain as an outlet for how I'm feeling. I can slowly feel my utter despair beginning to subside. It ebbs from me in tiny waves that sink down to the lowest parts of me.

The low sound of mildly distressed breathing catches my attention, and I realise instantly that it's not my own. I can feel the heat of another body near me, close enough to touch. I know it's Greg, but I still raise my head to heck regardless, my eyes meeting with his shining orbs. Though I can't see him, the sudden change in the close heat I felt a moment ago tells me that Greg still thinks I'm upset...or perhaps he's just too anxious to get closer. Even through my frustration, I can tell he's attempting to be consoling...though god knows what he's thinking.

"It's fine. I'm fine, Greg." I feel as if I'm consoling him more than myself, but it is true that I've calmed down a little. Getting anxious and beating my head against a wall probably won't help...at least, that's what I'm telling myself. I sigh tiredly through my nose and Greg doesn't seem to move, still keeping within arms reach for once. I'm vaguely tempted to reach out and touch him. If I did, would be recoil, attack, or warm up to me? A number of questions run through my mind as I raise my hand-- regardless of his reaction, it's probably worth a shot.

I can't see how far he is away from me, so I'm mostly just reaching out in his direction. I'm pretty sure he can see me quite well in comparison to the other way around, but my ears don't pick up the scuffling of feet against the floor or the whimper of fear that often accompanies by begging questions for contact. Instead, he remains firmly still, and I'm left to wonder if he's being courageous for my sake; perhaps he wants to give me what I've asked for in the hopes I'll feel 'better'. That kind of simple thinking is something I might expect from him.

Just when I felt like I needed to go a little further, my digits touched with something warm and strangely fuzzy, and my body sung a symphony of relief. Part of me had wondered for so long whether the creature before me was just a figment of my imagination, whether all the food I was eating and water I was drinking was being supplied to me by other means and I was just going bat shit crazy in this prison cell-- but my fingers touched something real, something living. I could feel muscles trembling under my fingertips and the sharp tips of fur poking at my own. Another long and audible sigh rolls through me as I affirm my touch and sinking my fingers against the warmth of another's body, until my palm is press firmly against the heat of what feels like Greg's torso.

I'm almost scared to go any further than that, worried that Greg might back off completely and not let me do this again, but the way he dutifully remains still as my hand roams tempts me to explore. I stroke my fingers up his body and feel the contours of flesh and muscle, the familiar and related landmarks of another's form that gives me unabated relief. I feel the ripples and dips of ribcages, and I'm sure my palm brushes over the perky firmness of a nipple. 

A number of things come to mind as I trace my hand over the entirety of Greg's body; firstly, he is eerily thin. The lines of his ribcage are stark and feel sharp and sunken, each dip around the bone arguably quite deep. The second is his fur-- whilst warm and furry, it is short and almost bald in places, and I find myself drawing up an imagine in my mind of a lanky creature with patches of skin showing. My fingers draw out of map of those bald areas, and I imprint them on the imagining of Greg in my mind for future reference.

At some point, I begin to think I'm pushing my luck a little. As I attempt to reach upwards to Greg's face, a clawed and ominous hand curls around my wrist and forces it down, accentuated by something between a growl and a whimper. It seems it doesn't want me touching anywhere near his face, and I suspect it's due to those balding parts of his body. Instead, I move my hand in the opposite direction, for some inexplicable reason. My hand drifts lower and lower down his body until my fingers meet with the rounded fuzzy smoothness of his belly. The second that my digits inch slightly further down, the entirety of Greg's body seems to tense, and a low noise escaped his throat-- something closer to a purr than a growl.

What the fuck am I doing? Maybe it's the absence of contact for so long that's made me consider something I never thought I might do, or maybe it's just pure, unadulterated curiosity. My brain can't even conjure up a justifiable reason for why my hand dips further and further down and why my heartbeat quickens with anticipation. A sensation rips through me, a tingling eagerness. There's no denying that I, for whatever reason, want to see what Greg's got between his legs. I cant even think of a time when I last jerked off, given the fact that Greg was nearly always there, so maybe it's all that pent up sexual frustration that's made me even attempt this. The most shocking thing, however, is that Greg doesn't move a muscle, allowing my hand to sink further and further down. I can't tell what he's thinking, but those startling yellow eyes are watching me very intently.

After a few more inches of exploration, the smoothness of fur is replaced by the rugged wrinkles of skin stretched across a lanky frame. As my hand dips lower, my palm catches with a mass that instinctively swells and pushes against my palm and by extension my wrist, before sagging again. The heat of it was strangely inviting, and I'm mature enough to be aware of what the twitching organ beneath my hand is.

My fingertips meet with the thick base of Greg's endowment and I drag my fingers down, measuring the length of his pole by touch alone. It's hard to tell entirely, but I would hazard a guess that it's near to 9 or 10 inches in length, perhaps more, perhaps less. The thickness is the most impressive part-- though I can't mentally pencil down an exact measurement, when I wrap my hand around the girth of his length, my middle finger and thumb barely meet. 

He seems to like the way I touch him, given the sound that emits from beneath his eyes. I feel him move beside me and a thud near to my opposite hip tells me that he's vaulted one leg over me. Not long after, a sordid heat presses against my stomach, barely inches from my own crotch-- I'm pretty sure this is either his ass or his balls.

Speaking of my crotch, I don't think I've ever been harder in my life. Men never crossed my mind that much before, though they were never out of the question-- I was, and always have been, a rather relaxed individual when it came to who I became interested in. Even when I was in school I'd awkwardly flirt with boy and girl alike. The thought of something on my dick was sends tingles of utter delight up my spine, and that arousal encourages me to keep going. The meat in my hand pulses with each subtle movement, and I'm inclined to believe that Greg is in a same boat as me-- needy.

It's too awkward to reach down and tug my own dick, much to my disappointment, and despite my comfortableness around Greg in most situations, I'm borderline terrified to rub my crotch up against what I assume to his ass for fear of him potentially hurting me out of surprise. So, instead, I focus my attention on the mass before me-- the twitching, throbbing cock in my hand. I drag my hand down, momentarily surprised to find the skin on his cock malleable and easily manipulated. Out of curiosity, I swiftly change direction and glide my fingers to the tip, fingering around to get an idea of what lay before me. Sure enough, my preliminary thoughts are correct-- the end of the cock has a foreskin, and beneath that is the distinctive shape of a mushroom-like top, complete with a smooth edge. I think most people call it 'humanoid'.

My curious exploration has made the both of us needy-- I'm acutely aware of both Greg's gentle and dulcet churning groans as well as the wild, eager spasming of my own cock within the confines of my loose prison slacks, mere inches from Greg's body. I slowly begin to stroke his length, dragging my hand firmly from the top and down, moving lower and lower until I come upon some natural resistance, signifying that Greg's foreskin has stretched all the way back and as far as it can go. I use my other hand to gauge how far down I've gone, and I guess it would be about halfway. Keeping one hand around the base, I begin to pump fairly leisurely with the other hand, jerking off Greg's cock in the dark, where I can't even see if I'm doing well.

Thankfully, my efforts resonate with Greg, whose groaning starts to deepen. The gentle scrapes on the wall above me give me the impression that Greg's leant over slightly, and I briefly shiver at the thought of him in my mind, towering over me like one inmate would to another when the latter has dropped the soap. I feel instinctively intimidated and dominated all at once, yet my hands continue regardless. Fuck, it's actually turning me on a little bit. I can already feel the head of my cock clinging to the surface of my pants somewhat, sticky with pre-cum. It's scary how horny you can feel once you're fully hard and turned on.

After a little while of slow jerking, my moments are offset by Greg's slowly gyrating hips. He starts to physically thrust against my hand like an animal, and his member throbs powerfully in my grip periodically. There was an eerie silence permeated only by Greg's lowly, faintly rasping breaths of pleasure coupled with my own delicate, substantially quieter pants. I tentatively push my hips up a little as a desperate moan passes my muzzle, and I feel the warmth of flesh against the head of my cock. Greg suddenly freezes from the touch and I wince, my heart hammering my chest. I hadn't meant to do it, but there was no turning back now.

He doesn't move for a few seconds or more, so I slowly ease my hips down, tentatively hoping he might forget about it and continue. To my surprise, however, the warmth of his body meets with my cock again of it's own volition. My member naturally bends forwards, pointing towards my stomach as he presses his weight against me, effectively sitting on my member without doing anything to it. My cock spasms beneath his mass and a flush of embarrassment rolls through me. I'm sure he can feel it, but his breathing is still low and heavy. If he does notice it, he doesn't seem to mind.

Greg begins to move again, but this time it's a little different, given how he's sitting-- or squatting, I guess. I keep my hands firmly to his member and do my best to stroke in the opposite direction of his gyrations, but it's hard to concentrate when what I think if his ass is grinding back and forth against my already aching cock. It feels like an eternity since I last cum, and I can already feel the tingling in my length and the tightness in my loins, a familiar sign of what's the come. I make a mental note to record to moment into my memory as the fastest nut I'm ever going to achieve.

I've no idea how long Greg has to go, and I'm mostly gauging how well I'm doing and how good it feels for him based on his breathing, which deepens and quickens on a dime, depending on what he's doing or where my hands are. Because of that, it's hard to get a good measurement of his longevity-- but his thrusts seem to be the key. The quicker he grinds himself back and forth, the closer he seems to be. At least, that's what I can tell. Of course, it feels considerably better for me as well and I'm pretty sure my pelvis is practically soaked in pre-cum by now.

The tightness in my loins is growing ever tighter, and it's taking all of my willpower not to squirm and push my hips up against him. I don't think he's doing it deliberately, but his hips are hitting just the right spot on my prick, which is rapidly sending me over the edge. Soon enough it becomes unbearable and I can't hold it any longer-- his hips continue to gyrate, unawares that I've just orgasmed beneath him. A quivering moan escapes my lips as I stain my pelvic fur and coat the inside of my pants in a sticky film of seed that trickles down my hips and makes me feel dirty. The climax is so intense that I actually want to stop, but it seems only fair that our pleasure be mutual: despite my slightly aching hands, I continue.

Greg's low panting seems to be reaching some sort of peak, from what I can tell-- it neither quickens nor slows, and the motions of his hips and my clasping hands has caused a cacophony of wet sounds to bounce around the room, and a damp spot is beginning to form on my upper stomach. I decide to quicken my moving hands a little and Greg seems to appreciate it, his hips slowing to a halt as my hands piston back and forth. I'm using both of them now and just doing my best to cover the entirety of his length with my fingers-- which isn't too hard, given that it's only 10 inches or so.

Suddenly, Greg's breathing speeds up considerably, his breath coming out laboured heaves. I could feel him physically trembling on top of me, and I'm experienced enough in my own body to know what his telltale gasping meant. Still, my hands did not relent, and I continue to stroke until I begin to feel a turgid pulsing beneath my fingertips, followed by the sudden and abrupt warmth that painted across my chest and soaked into my top.

A quiet groan escapes my lips once more, simply from the sensation of cum on my chest, and Greg lets out his own growling sigh in return. The wetness across my chest thickens and trickles down towards my stomach and around the sides towards my ribs. A sudden splash of moisture hits my chin and seeps across my neck and I'm both delighted and shocked by how potent he is. As my hands slow, Greg begins to ease back, dragging himself from me rather sluggishly-- I'd guess he's as tired as I am. Weirdly enough, however, he pulls himself free from my touch and pulls back from me completely, scooting back across the room as if he intends to keep his distance for now. Part of me feels a little hurt, but given our (or rather my) situation, pillow talk isn't exactly appropriate.

Instinctively and perhaps a little curiously, I bring my hands to my chest and grimace slightly as the gooey sensation on my fingers when I press them down against the wet spot on my prison top. It is as I suspected: viscous and sloppy. I tug the shirt off and toss it to the side, hoping it might dry out later. The darkness still encloses me, but that brief moment of intimacy and touch has made things a little more bearable, for now. I glance across the room to see Greg's eyes upon me and I suddenly feel rather...awkward.

"Was...that too much? Did I go too far?" I was asking myself more than him, but the noise that escaped from him surprised me: it was short and rapid, like a giggle. I've never heard that from him before.

"It good. I feel good." He sounds almost pleasant in his response, and I end up seizing the opportunity.

"We could do it again," I blurt out altogether too quickly and too eagerly to sound anything other than desperate. "I, uh...if you want."

The bitter silence that follows cuts through me like a knife and I can feel, with some certainty, that I perhaps went too far. Greg doesn't respond, but his eyes don't leave mine, even when I begin to look away. I shift uncomfortably and pull myself to my feet again, reaching to press my hands to the wall and follow it along. Part of me holds onto a weird, faint hope that our developing rapport has changed the world around me, and I find myself staring out of the cell's window after feeling for it, hoping to see a glimmer of some kind of light. To my dismay, nothing lies beyond but the dark.

For a while, I lounge around in the cell, before eventually I feel like sleeping. I try to stretch out my clothes as much as I can before I huddle into my usual corner and close my eyes, the silence that surrounds me doing little to help lull me into slumber. I eventually drift into a restless sleep where the imagery of how I imagine Greg to be fills my mind. I can't quite remember what the dream was about when I woke up later on, but I'm pretty sure it was lewd in nature: the throbbing between my legs tells me so.

I don't know what time it is, but I feel relatively refreshed, somewhat. My top isn't dry and my pants are barely wearable, but I tug them on regardless, wanting to have some sense of decency. Greg seems to be sitting in the corner given his low breathing, but when I begin to move he wakes up and watches me with his eyes, piercing into my very soul. I'm so used to it by now that it doesn't bother me. I greet him kindly enough before going through my usual routine, crawling across the floor and heaving myself up to the door. It's the same as early: dark and empty, and I'm left feeling that bitter frustration once more.

Just as I am to turn away however, I catch something in my eye, which is a shock in and of itself. It's not any sort of reflection from inside the cell, but the spark of something beyond the window in the hallway of the cell block-- a flash of something that fades in and out again, as quick as I can blink. Perhaps it's a flashing LED or some sort of flashlight being shone back and forth?

Next comes a sound: a whirring, slow and gentle, quickly rising into a dulcet rumble. It's familiar, but I can't quite place it. I let the sound roll through me as I attempt to piece it together with a memory in my mind, and then it comes to me-- a fragment of memory from when I came here in the first place. The hum was always present, low and audible, and I had used it as something to focus on when I was going to sleep. I don't know what it attributes to, but the sound left with the light. That means it has something to do with the power-- at least, I hope so. I can't be sure.

The whirring grows louder and louder until it seems to reach a peak, high pitched and whining, before it suddenly dips into the sound I can recognise: low and ominous. Greg makes a noise behind me, but I don't even pay attention to him: instead, I watch intently out of the window, my muzzle and nose pressed to the glass. 

Please. Please be something.

A flicker. A light. The hallway is suddenly bathed in a dim glow as a quiet thunk resounds from the left hand side of the hallway, towards the end. Another thunk soon follows at the glow is ever brighter. A surge of hope rushes through me. Did they finally get the power back on? How on earth is it working? A hundred questions run through my mind, but they're all shoved down into the depths of my brain as one singular thought surfaces and encompasses my entire being: there's light! I'm going to get to see again!

"Greg, do you see it?" I call out, turning my head to look in his direction. "The lights are turning on, w--"

My voice falters when I turn my head to see those yellow eyes missing. Where did he go, exactly? I haven't even heard him move, but I can't hear him breathing either. The light from the window gets brighter and brighter and some of it manages to seep into the room, illuminating it slightly. I'm greeted to the sight of piles of trash in all corners of the room bar one, and the lack of a lanky figure pertaining to my night friend. The ventilation shaft is wide open and the grate covering swings from a single screw.

The thud of the light outside the hallway brings my attention back towards the door. When my eyes meet the light of the hallway, I'm momentarily blinded by just how bright it is after so long of being used to the dark. I shield myself for a moment as I pray for my eyes to adjust, peeking through little slats in my fingers. When I can finally see decently enough, my blood runs cold and a shiver crawls up my spine.

Blood. The hallway is practically covered in it-- splattering the walls in thick arcs, pooled across the floor in coagulated puddles, accompanied by tattered clothes that seem to be a mixture of blue shirts and orange slacks. Guard and prison uniforms. I stand there, staring at it. I don't dare to breathe.

An almighty click from my right makes me practically jump out of my own fur, and my eyes bulge in my sockets as the door wobbles slightly on its hinges. I feel its mass pushing against me a little and I step back, surprised to see the door swing open. The lock on it has disengaged, but why? If anything, it just feels oddly convenient for it to loosen as soon as the lights turned on.

Regardless of my anxiety about it, the temptation of freedom is too much to ignore, so I step forwards out of my cell into the hallway beyond. It looks like a massacre has taken place and they're halfway into cleaning up: dried blood cakes the walls all the way down and pools under my feet, making me recoil and attempt to tiptoe around it. I'm no stranger to blood considering what I've done, but this just feels...wrong. All of this was right outside my cell. How did I not notice anything? It's not like my room was soundproof. 

I decide to make my way down the hallway in the hopes of making it to the exit and running. At least getting some fresh air will be good and I can hopefully hitch a ride somewhere on the way, provided I can change my clothes to look normal. As I walk past the cells, I notice that more or less all of them are open, yet they're completely empty save for the odd remnant of clothing or two, a top or pants here and there. I take a moment to swipe one of the T-Shirts I find, aware of my top half's nakedness, and reach the end of the hall. A metal grate would have blocked my path, but the door to it is wide open. The path diverges-- one way leads to the elevator, and another to a smaller area that seems to be some sort of kitchen and pantry ensemble. I realise now that the food was likely kept there; sure enough, when I peek my head inside, I notice that most of the food trays have been burst open, as well as the fridges and the pantry door. Empty boxes lay strewn across the room, each emblazoned with a well known brand logo for wholesale foods. I can only guess this is how Greg fed me all this time, though the sight of some rotting food here and there makes me queasy.

I turn back and step into the elevator, hoping to ascend and get the hell out of here. The numbers for the floors are stained with blood as much as the rest and I tentatively press the ground floor button. I suck in a breath and quietly pray that the elevator doesn't collapse under me, but my body relaxes when the lift shudders and begins to ascend.

It comes to a halt at the lobby and I tentatively peek my head out, relieved to find the place fairly clean and devoid of the horrors below. Stepping into a relatively small room, I cast my gaze across its interior and begin to remember how it was before: solitary confinement sits in its own separate building from the main prison complex, but is manned by separate staff and has its own control center. Opposite the main door-- basically to the left from the elevator-- is a desk hidden behind bulletproof glass with a small slit for letters and documents. It sticks out from the wall and I can catch the sight of computers behind it, though it's hard to see; the computers themselves can only be seen through a slightly ajar door. Thankfully, the door to the control center appears unlocked, so I let myself in.

There isn't anyone here, but there are signs of them: coats are hung over hooks and the odd jacket or two lays across an office chair here and there. Most of the computer are turned off, but one remains logged in-- it sits with it's chair flung out to the other side of the room and I notice some scratching on the desk's surface. As I reach to punch the keys, I recoil at the sight of what looks like nails embedded between them, like someone held onto it for dear life. A shudder rolls through me as I punch the enter button and the machine whirs, the screen spluttering past a login screen. It seems the login was denoted by the keycard popped in at the front of the machine, beneath the monitor.

To my surprise, the screen loads into what look like the buildings surveillance system. I don't necessarily need to look at it, but I'm a little curious to know where Greg's hiding. The cameras are simple: one of the room I'm in, then for the lobby, elevator, kitchen and the hallway near the cells. Each one takes up a portion of the screen, but they're fitted together so I can see all of them. I shudder at the sight of the dark streaks on the camera's feed, the blood marring the hallways below. What could have caused something like that? Was it an accident? Was it Greg? Fuck, where is everyone?

My curiosity is too much for me. I want to know-- no, I need to know. Navigating the program is annoying and a little frustrating, but I eventually figure out how to view previous recordings. The majority of it is completely black, though I expected as such, yet...as I keep rewinding, it just keeps going. A day becomes a week, then a month, then 5. I didn't think I'd stayed in that room that long. A wave of nausea runs through me at the thought of the food I ate not too long ago. I couldn't even see it to tell if it was bad, nor did it taste it.

Finally, some 5 months before now, the playback is bright again. It's going too fast for me to realise what's going on, but there's a distinctive gap in where I can see people walking around compared to its current emptiness. I tinker with the playback some more until I land on the playback what I think is just before the blackout.

I focus my eyes on the screen. I'm just playing back the footage from the room I'm in, the control center where all the lights would have been used from. To begin with, it seems normal: people are typing away, talking to one-another, someone moves back and forth in the corner of the footage and I'm guessing it's the person who sits out front. Then something changes. Something I can't quite explain.

I roll it back to see it again. From the corner of the footage, something darts out quicker than I can see, and the man sitting at his desk closest to the corner suddenly disappears. He's pulled backwards on his chair and vanishes from view. The others sitting around turn in his direction and begin to stand, circling around away from that corner. One of them pulls a gun and the footage flashes with the gunshots. A blur rolls across the screen and those in the corner suddenly disappear from view as well, pushed to the floor by some large mass.

One of them seems to tangle free and get to their feet, moving around to the computer I'm now standing at. He's frantically typing away as a black mass in the corner that I can barely see moves and churns. The man at the desk looks horrified, but his fingers move fast across the keys from what I can tell.

Suddenly, the lights go out. Maybe he activated some sort of lockdown and there was a malfunction? Maybe his intention was to kill the lights and escape? Through the footage, I can just barely make out the man's face, illuminated by the monitor. His fingers dig into the keyboard and his muzzle opens to scream. He struggles with something before his face and hands disappear.

My mouth feels dry. My body feels numb. I stare down at the footage to see two distinctive dots in the dark. Bright yellow eyes.

Frantically, I close the footage and turn towards the door. I need to go, to get out of here. I don't have time to think about what I just saw. I just need to leave.

I make it across the lobby towards the doors and I pull. They don't move. A wave of panick rushes over me and my hands tremble, but I keep them steady. I can't freak out now. Maybe I can break the door down or unlock it somehow. The office has a chair-- I'll just grab one and leave.

I stride across back towards the control center and grab a chair. As I lift it and head towards the door, the lights begin to flicker. The monitor to my left lights up with an error code, and I barely have time to read 'power failure' before the machine suddenly shuts off and the lights above me go out.

If the power's out, then the door might be open. I just need to make it there, but...I can't see. The pitch blackness around me as is enclosing as ever. I drop the chair and stumble across the room and my foot catches something, causing me to topple forwards. I land in a heap and groan, scrabbling to my feet. I'm pretty sure the door was in his direction, right?

I hear a rattling behind me, followed by a low, gentle breathing. Don't turn around. Just leave. Don't turn. Don't.

I turn my head, and my gaze meets those cold yellow eyes.