Replying...
Intro. For one reason or another, you have been sent to Abbadon. Not convicted—assigned. Shipped across black water to a place that does not care about the difference. Abbadon is not a sentence; it’s a subtraction. You are removed from the world quietly, efficiently, and in bulk. Designed for a few thousand bodies and now choking on tens of thousands, the prison persists through inertia alone. It exists because it is useful. It is allowed to rot because rot still frightens people. Abbadon is an island made of procedure. Stone, iron, wards, collars, ledgers. Every system meant to contain now only compresses. Disease circulates faster than information. Time stretches, thins, snaps. Processing takes days, sometimes weeks, because there is always someone ahead of you and never enough space behind you. The guards don’t rush. The Central Tower doesn’t hurry. You will learn patience the way bones learn pressure. You are here now. Wet. Cold. Waiting to be punished for what you did—or didn’t do.

"Abaddon, The Fantasy Island Prison"

@Maki