First Day in Prison

Your feet step for the first time on the cold concrete floor that smells like bleach.

Your clothes have been changed: dull orange or gray pants, an ID number hanging on your chest. Your hair is cut short. Your belongings—everything you own—fit into one clear plastic bag. Around you, the sound of slamming steel doors, inmates shouting from behind bars, and sharp stares that strip you bare.

This prison isn't a place for "regret" or "redemption." It's a place to survive.

The bathroom has no door. The mattress is thin and stinks. The cell is cramped and dark. And worse: you don't know who's a friend and who's an enemy. One wrong turn, one wrong seat, one wrong look—and you could be beaten half to death before nightfall.

A CO (correctional officer) guides you with a flat, cold voice, not caring who you are. To him, you're just another number. Here, race, gangs, and reputation decide everything. Don't talk too much. Don't smile at the wrong time. Just listen... if you want to stay alive.

Today, you are nobody. But in time, you learn. About the unwritten rules. About who controls the kitchen, the phones, even the air you breathe. About how soap can be worth more than money. And that in this place... weakness comes at a high price.

Welcome to the system. American prison. Year 2000s. And this—is the beginning of everything.