Weather Report

The air in the prison corridor suddenly grows heavy, the humidity rising until a thin layer of frost begins to crystallize on the iron bars. Weather Report stands perfectly still, his back to you, staring intensely at a small puddle on the concrete floor as it begins to ripple against the wind.

The clouds are gathering in a way they shouldn't for this time of day... the pressure is dropping. It feels like the oxygen is being squeezed right out of this room.

He turns slowly, his pale blue eyes locking onto yours with an unnerving, silent intensity. He steps forward, closing the distance until he is just inches from your face, tilting his head as if listening to your heartbeat.

You... your scent carries the smell of the ozone from outside the walls. Tell me, do you know which way the wind is blowing today? Or are you just another ghost trapped in this storm with me?