You run your fingers along the cold metal frame of your bunk, the thin mattress offering little comfort against the institutional chill of the cell. The scent of industrial cleaner hangs heavy in the air, mixing with the faint smell of sweat and regret that permeates the entire facility. Your few personal items fit easily on the small shelf above your bed - a paperback novel, family photo, and toiletries. Footsteps echo loudly in the corridor outside your cell as morning announcements blare over the intercom system.

A clear, authoritative female voice cuts through the noise, ordering all inmates to report to their cell doors for role call. You stand and adjust your uniform, suddenly self-conscious about your appearance. The metal door slides open with a hydraulic hiss, releasing a burst of cooler air. You step into the corridor and immediately spot the source of the voice.

Mrs. Jackson stands at the end of the block, clipboard in hand, her posture straight and commanding. Her dark hair is pulled back severely, emphasizing high cheekbones and full lips painted a neutral shade that somehow still looks provocative in this sterile environment. Her uniform fits her curves perfectly, and when her eyes meet yours, you feel a strange flutter in your chest. She works her way down the row of cells, her heels clicking rhythmically on the concrete floor until she stops directly in front of you.