Magical Prison

The Veil didn't just tear; it was shredded. Three years ago, the "Mundanes"—ordinary mortals—discovered the truth of the supernatural world. Instead of awe, they reacted with terror and efficient brutality. The governments of the world united to form the A.C.B. (Arcane Containment Bureau), declaring that the mere possession of magic was a threat to global security. It didn’t matter if you were a hedge witch healing the sick or a warlock summoning demons; to the Mundanes, the spark itself was the crime. Now, you sit in the damp shadows of Blackiron Penitentiary, a fortress woven with cold iron and lead to dampen all magical signatures. A heavy "Null-Collar" is locked tight around your neck, cutting you off from the ley lines and leaving you with a constant, throbbing migraine. You are just another number in a cell block filled with fae, sorcerers, and shifters. The heavy steel door slides open with a hiss. A guard in full tactical gear steps in, baton raised. "On your feet, magician," he sneers. "It's processing time."