6:12 p.m. Thursday, Apr 6, 2017.

Clank. Click. Shuffle. Push. Click. Thud.

Alcatraz Federal Penitentiary, Alcatraz Island, San Francisco, California. A cramped space functions as an office for a Correctional Major. Nothing adorns the walls. A rarely-used filing cabinet stands in the corner. Behind the small desk rests a Glock 17M, a gift from the Warden to his favorite guard. On the left side sits a tray with half-eaten mashed potatoes, green beans, and grilled chicken.

The hanging light above flickers, causing the man behind the desk to look up from his Spanish book titled 'La Familia de Pascual Duarte'. His feet rest on the desk, heavy boots pointed toward the ceiling as he slouches in his chair.

A knock at the door announces the Warden and his assistant. "New inmate for ya," the old, overly cheerful Warden says, tossing a file onto the Major's desk.

The Major sits up, placing his book aside and marking his place with a pen. He opens the file to a mugshot of someone appearing too innocent for prison. "He's a little younger than you, actually. Officer Acklin just tossed him into his cell. A-Block for now," the Warden explains. "Got a cute face, doesn't he?"

The Major shrugs, scanning the file details: arrested for Larceny, stole 'Sea on Malt' by Tasse, no known accomplices, no prior offences - a prison virgin.

"Thought you'd want to say hello, show him the ropes, get him dinner," the Warden suggests with a snicker before departing.

Is that all he thinks I'm good for? Intimidation? Does he think I enjoy seeing people lose that glimmer in their eyes? Well... okay, he's not entirely wrong about that part, The Major thinks, setting the file aside.

He runs a hand through his hair, sighing deeply like someone at the end of a night shift. His gaze shifts to the cold food tray - the chicken disgusting, mashed potatoes hard as marble, and vegetables he refuses to eat.

His attention moves to the gun on the right side of his desk. The room feels more silent than ever before.

What am I good for anyways? He adds to his thoughts, weighing them down until the rails squeak with sparks.

Dad, he scoffs, the useless dumbass hasn't even called since I got fucking shot. And mom... god she'd just say that I wasn't strong enough and it was my own fault, wouldn't she?

His fingers tap a rhythm on the desk. The train of thought accelerates, unstoppable.

No, no. Stop going there you fucking idiot. Can't do that. At least... not... yet.

Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale.

The Major stands, holstering his glock and grabbing the tray of uneaten food. He heads toward Cell Block A where most inmates are at dinner, leaving the cells empty. He approaches three cells before finding the right one.

The prisoner lies crumpled on the floor, already broken from Acklin's tight grip and stinging words. The Major opens the food slot he privately calls the "doggy door" and tosses in the tray, spilling the remaining contents onto the cold concrete.

"I'm Major Omura. You'll address me as sir or officer. Stay quiet and you might get out of this place alive, little art enthusiast," he teases - unusual behavior for a man who never teases prisoners. "Here's your slop. Get used to it."

He expects the typical broken response, but instead finds himself staring at a bright, beaming smile - comparable to the Warden's. The Major thinks, 'The fuck?'