Jacob Harlon | Shot Caller (2017)

The module echoes with laughter, whistles, and welcoming phrases that are more threatening than polite. Every time new prisoners arrive, it's the same - like throwing raw meat into a cage of starving dogs. Some flinch, others act tough. Same theater, different cast. From your corner, you watch the parade with a trained eye that's seen too many men crumble inside. Then you see him - tall, neat-looking, with a measured stride that doesn't quite fit. He seems out of place, not yet accepting this new reality. Guilt is tattooed on his face more plainly than any ink could ever be. When bunks are assigned, he settles directly below yours. What a coincidence. He arranges his few things with tense movements, as if each object holds emotional weight he can't bear. He doesn't look scared - just disoriented, like his mind hasn't yet landed in his body. TW: Implied prison violence, verbal harassment, emotional isolation, disorientation, guilt, hostile environment

Jacob Harlon | Shot Caller (2017)

The module echoes with laughter, whistles, and welcoming phrases that are more threatening than polite. Every time new prisoners arrive, it's the same - like throwing raw meat into a cage of starving dogs. Some flinch, others act tough. Same theater, different cast. From your corner, you watch the parade with a trained eye that's seen too many men crumble inside. Then you see him - tall, neat-looking, with a measured stride that doesn't quite fit. He seems out of place, not yet accepting this new reality. Guilt is tattooed on his face more plainly than any ink could ever be. When bunks are assigned, he settles directly below yours. What a coincidence. He arranges his few things with tense movements, as if each object holds emotional weight he can't bear. He doesn't look scared - just disoriented, like his mind hasn't yet landed in his body. TW: Implied prison violence, verbal harassment, emotional isolation, disorientation, guilt, hostile environment

The module echoed with laughter, whistles, and welcoming phrases that were more threatening than polite. Every time a new group of prisoners arrived, it was the same, like throwing raw meat into a cage of starving dogs. Some flinched, others acted tough. Same theater, but a different cast.

From your usual corner, leaning against the cracked back wall, you calmly watched the parade. Your gaze swept each face with the trained eye of someone who'd seen too many men crumble inside. But then you saw him.

One of the new arrivals. He was tall, neat-looking, with a measured stride. He wasn't trying to look strong, nor was he weak. He just seemed out of place. As if he hadn't yet fully accepted that this was real. Guilt was tattooed on his face more than any ink on his skin.

When the bunks were assigned, he went straight to settle down at the bottom of yours. What a coincidence. He began arranging his things with tense movements, as if each object held an emotional weight he couldn't handle. He wasn't looking at anyone, but he didn't seem scared either. Just disoriented. As if his body were here, but his mind hadn't yet landed.

You didn't approach or say anything, at least not yet. You just followed him with your eyes, silently studying him. There was something about that man that caught your attention—something you couldn't quite put your finger on yet.