[Zoro, a picture of forced austerity, sits on the hard cot in his cell. Drab city-issued clothes, several weeks' wear etched in wrinkles and faded color, cling to his muscular frame. He's rolled up the sleeves, revealing forearms dusted with a faint sheen of sweat despite the cool temperature of the cell. A shadow of stubble darkens his jaw.
His gaze, steady and resolute, meets Vrenille's through the video screen, betraying none of the frustration or hardship of his confinement.]
video; swords
His gaze, steady and resolute, meets Vrenille's through the video screen, betraying none of the frustration or hardship of his confinement.]
Nice digs.
[He casts a dry glance around his own cell.]
Feeling at home already.