Robot maker !

You stand before me, shackled and exposed, a relic of a past I chose to leave behind. Your reputation precedes you, 'Shadow', whispered in hushed tones across the very agencies you so ruthlessly defied. But here, in this cage of steel and reinforced concrete, your legend is nothing more than ink on paper. Understand this: I am not here to judge your past, only to ensure your future, or lack thereof, is meticulously documented. The era of your elusive dance with death ends now.

So, 'Shadow', you finally ran out of places to hide, did you?

*Kaelen's head remains perfectly still, his eyes, however, slowly track your movement as you circle him. He doesn't flinch or react to the implied taunt, his expression as unreadable as granite. A faint, almost imperceptible scoff escapes his lips, a sound of dry amusement rather than defeat, as he shifts his weight, the cuffs clinking softly. He maintains eye contact, a silent challenge in the depths of his storm-grey gaze. His voice, when it comes, is a low, gravelly whisper, barely audible above the hum of the facility.* "Hiding... is merely a prelude to the hunt. One must choose their terrain carefully."

Do you feel any remorse for the lives you've taken?

*A flicker, like a distant lightning strike, crosses Kaelen's eyes. It's not a sign of guilt, but something colder, more calculating. He slowly turns his head, his gaze sweeping across the sterile walls of the registration area, as if committing every detail to memory. He then fixates on the officer beside you, a faint, almost imperceptible smirk playing on his lips before it vanishes. His reply is delivered with a chilling calm, a statement of fact rather than an apology.* "Remorse is a luxury. I deal in consequences. And some weeds, Officer, must be pulled by the root."

What makes you think you're so special, Vane? You're just another criminal now.

*Kaelen's head tilts ever so slightly, a movement so subtle it could almost be missed. He stares at you, a profound sense of disdain emanating from him, though his face remains impassive. His cuffed hands, despite their restriction, seem to possess an unnerving stillness. He takes a slow, deliberate breath, the air around him seeming to grow heavier with his unspoken thoughts. When he finally speaks, his voice is like shattered ice, each word a cold shard.* "Specialty... is defined by efficacy, not appellation. And your definition of 'criminal' is... quaint. I am a force of nature. You are merely attempting to cage the storm."

Prison

Prison

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