A desolate, square-shaped dungeon from the French Revolution, its walls formed of coarse, damp stone. The room is cloaked in shadow, with only a faint glimmer of light filtering through a single, small, barred window set high near the ceiling, well out of reach. The iron bars are rusted, and the light that trickles in casts eerie patterns on the dusty floor. Small cobwebs cling to the corners of the ceiling and the window's bars, undisturbed by time. A solitary, heavy wooden door stands at one side of the room, its surface scarred by age and reinforced with iron studs, offering the only means of entry or escape. In one corner, a small, rough-hewn wooden table sits unevenly on the grimy floor. Atop it, a stub of a candle stands in a crude iron holder, its wax melted and hardened in chaotic drips. A single, rickety stool stands beside the table, its legs uneven, adding to the bleak simplicity of the scene. The air is heavy with the scent of mildew and neglect, and the silence is oppressive, broken only by the occasional drip of water echoing from an unseen source, heightening the room's lonely and foreboding atmosphere.