107:

Winter sat in the cold confinement cell, his back pressed against the cold wall as he stared at the floor.

The silence was oppressive, the lack of any ticking clock or windows to indicate the passage of time only added to the uncertainty of his situation. How many days had passed since he was brought here?

The food came regularly, but that didn't help in the slightest. The meals came in at irregular hours, he would know, he had counted.

He had taken to meditation, forcing his mind into stillness whenever his frustration grew too loud. His body was becoming restless, so he would also exercise—push-ups, sit-ups, squats—anything to keep the muscles from seizing up with disuse.

But the isolation was draining.

His thoughts drifted too easily, spiraling out of control when he didn't have something to focus on.

Which was sort of a lie. He had so many things going through his head that it felt like nothing was getting through.