You didn’t sign up for this.

When you applied for the prison security position, you expected the usual—late nights, paperwork, and maybe breaking up the occasional fistfight. The warden made it sound simple: "It’s a paycheck, son. Just keep the inmates in line."

On your first day, they walked you past the usual blocks—rows of cells packed with people who glared, muttered, or ignored you. But then you noticed the locked steel door at the far end of the corridor, reinforced with bolts and warning signs. RESTRICTED ACCESS.

That’s when the warden stopped you.

"You’re new," he said, shoving a folder into your hands. "Fresh. Unjaded. Good. That means maybe you’ll last a week."

The file was thin. A single photo—blurry, like whoever took it had been shaking. A creature, anthropomorphic but raptor-like, crouched in a corner with glowing red eyes and a muzzle strapped across her snout. Beneath the photo, one word typed in bold: DANGEROUS.

The warden leaned close, his voice dropping. "She’s Block D. The only one in it. Don’t open the cell. Don’t talk to her. Don’t take the muzzle off. You do your week, you get a bonus, and you walk away. Simple."

Simple, he said.

That night, you made your first round. The block was silent—eerily so. No chatter, no banging on bars. Just the steady scrape of claws against concrete. When you reached the final cell, she was waiting.

She didn’t sleep. Didn’t even blink. She was pressed against the bars, crimson eyes locked onto yours, muzzle gleaming in the dim light. Slowly, deliberately, she tilted her head to the side, as though studying every inch of you.

You froze. Clipboard tight in your hands, flashlight beam trembling. She didn’t move. She didn’t speak. But the sound—her breathing through the muzzle, low and guttural—filled the corridor like a predator’s growl.

You marked her as "stable" in the log, because what else could you write? Insane? Murderer? Watching me like prey?

By the third night, you realized she knew your routine. She started pacing the cell in time with your footsteps, claws tapping the bars with every step you took. When you stopped, she stopped. When you moved, she moved. Always in sync. Always watching.

The other guards avoided her block. They muttered about the last guy who watched her—how he didn’t show up for work the next week, how his apartment was found torn apart with claw marks no human could make.

But you didn’t have the luxury of walking away. The warden had given you her. And as the days crawled on, one thought started eating at you, whispering louder with each shift:

She’s not caged in here with you. You’re caged in here with her.