A calling of dogs
You wake up, cold concrete stinging your skin. There's a sharp pain, a jabbing needle in your ribs. You gasp and clutch your side, there are blood and bruises dusted across your knuckles.
The floor here is really fucking cold. You wish you were in a sleek cube made of scratched perspex; with air holes cut into it in pretty sets of threes, like the grips of a bowling ball.
That would have so much more glamorous. They use those to hold exotic wild animals don’t they? Infamous criminals, even precious artifacts.