Arthur Winnipeg eyed the entrance to his cell apprehensively. To all appearances he should have been able to walk out of his own accord without any trouble. There was no door, not even a doorway, only three walls that formed a sort of giant alcove with the end open to a hall lined with similar alcoves. He’d already tried to leave though, and as he’d stepped forward the air had hardened in front of him like a pane of glass.
He rubbed absently at the stump where his recently confiscated prosthetic hand should have been, but behind the wire-rimmed spectacles his eyes still fixated on the edges of the walls where they met the hallway
