The Trial

The chains around Uriel's wrists clinked softly as he sat in the dimly lit waiting room. His head was bowed slightly, his fingers idly tracing the cold steel links. 

That morning, he'd been pulled out of his cell and allowed to take a shower with supervision. He'd done so, maintaining full eye contact with the guard until the man, embarrassed and uncomfortable, turned away. 

Now freshly showered, his dark hair combed back neatly, and dressed in a clean, tailored black suit—his usual armor of elegance and control—he looked every bit like the man he was: Uriel Serpov, the untouchable. The Hawthorn collar digging into his throat threatened to trick him into believing that he'd fallen but his present predicament was barely a bump in the road, an inconvenience. By the end of the day he would be out of there.