Of course, that level of courtesy only applied to Sentinels who were still lucid.
Those who had lost their sanity were dealt with differently—restrained, sedated, and transferred out.
Otherwise, even something as simple as a filthy environment could further deteriorate their physical condition.
Each heavy iron door was fitted with a small hatch, much like the ones used in prisons to pass food to inmates.
But these were slightly larger.
They had to accommodate more than meals—other necessities were delivered through them as well.
Books. Exercise equipment. Game consoles.
Anything larger required the door itself to be opened.
The detention block stretched long and narrow, divided into three levels.
The first floor housed Sentinels who could maintain stability for extended periods—relatively safe.
The second floor held those in more volatile states, prone to sudden loss of control and violent transformation.
And the third floor…
Those who had completely succumbed—fully feral, entirely devoid of reason.
Most of them were the most dangerous of all:
3S-class Sentinels.
Sabrina stopped in front of the first cell.
101.
She found the neatly labeled clothing from her cart, folded it carefully onto a tray, and opened the hatch.
With it, she slid in a small note.
The interior was silent.
Holding her clipboard, Sabrina waited quietly.
From upstairs, the sounds of heavy impacts and animalistic roars echoed down the corridor, making her tense, her gaze flicking uneasily from one shadowed corner to another.
So much so that she failed to notice the faint rustle of fabric from inside the cell beside her.
A hand—long, slender, and pale as if carved jade—reached out and picked up the note resting atop the clothes.
On it, written in delicate, careful handwriting:
[Hello. Is there anything else you need?]
He stood there for a long moment without speaking.
In the past, staff would ask the question themselves.
Though their impatience and perfunctory tone hardly needed mentioning.
But now…
Had they grown so indifferent that they couldn't even be bothered to speak to people like them?
When Sabrina looked back again, the clothes had already been taken.
Only her note remained, lying there alone.
She assumed the occupant didn't need anything further.
Without overthinking it, she closed the hatch and moved on.
102.
She retrieved the corresponding set of clothes, folded them neatly with the number facing up, and slid them in along with another note.
Bang!
Somewhere nearby, a cell door was struck with tremendous force.
The sudden crash made Sabrina flinch.
The slip of paper fluttered from her hand.
She quickly bent to pick it up—her gaze lifting just slightly—
And froze.
Her eyes locked with a pair of cold, black pupils.
At the hatch, a snake watched her in utter stillness.
Its body was pitch black, its underbelly a vivid, burning orange-red. Its scales glinted with an eerie sheen, and a dark forked tongue slipped slowly in and out, tasting the air—tasting her.
Sabrina's heart seized.
She didn't dare make a sudden move, afraid of provoking it.
Just then, a man's voice drifted from within—lazy, languid, almost soothing.
"Don't be afraid. It doesn't eat people…"
Sabrina forced her gaze away from the snake and looked inside.
Through the narrow hatch, she could only make out a shadowed figure reclining in the dim light, backlit and indistinct.
She had just begun to relax when his voice came again, soft and amused.
"It just likes biting them."
At once, the black-and-crimson snake lifted the front half of its body, coiling into a poised, predatory stance.
Its jaws parted slowly, revealing crescent-shaped fangs gleaming with venom.
Sabrina stumbled back in fright, bumping into her cart with a sharp clatter.
From inside, a quiet chuckle followed—low, satisfied.
Her fists clenched, eyes wide and fixed on the unnaturally colored serpent.
Through his spirit companion, every flicker of her fear was laid bare before him.
A glimmer of dark amusement surfaced in his eyes.
From somewhere above, another voice called out lazily:
"Quit scaring her, Xander."
Sabrina shot a grateful glance upward.
But the interruption only seemed to sour the mood.
The Sentinel in 102—Xander Finn—let out a cold, displeased scoff.
"Who asked you to play the good guy?"
A pause.
Then, with deliberate malice, he added: "I like scaring her."