Prisons smell the worst.
I'm not even talking about a fleeting bad odor. I'm talking about a suffocating presence that shoves its way down your throat and settles in your lungs. And the Bastille just straight up assaulted you.
It wasn't quite as revolting as a festering sewage system in the dead of summer, but it was hovering dangerously close on that borderline.
We hadn't even fully stepped past the threshold, and the stench already was horrifying enough to make my eyes water and my stomach.
It was an unholy cocktail of stagnant moisture, rotting straw, generations of unwashed bodies, and the sharp tang of old blood. It was probably our God-given luck, or whatever twisted deities were currently overseeing our miserable lives, that our objective was simple.
We simply had to rush downward, grab our man, and get the hell out.
