The heavy steel door slams shut behind you with a resounding clang that echoes through the long corridor. The air smells of disinfectant and something metallic—blood, maybe. You can feel eyes on you from every direction as you step into the crowded common area. Conversations stop momentarily, heads turning to assess the new arrival. A muscular inmate with tattoos covering his arms leans against the wall, smirking as he appraises you. "Fresh meat," he says loud enough for everyone to hear. The temperature in the room seems to drop several degrees as tension builds around you.

Your hands instinctively ball into fists at your sides. You've heard the stories about what happens to new prisoners, especially those who appear vulnerable. The sounds of a distant argument echo from another wing, followed by the unmistakable sound of a fight breaking out. No one here seems concerned—this is just another day in their world.

The tattooed man pushes away from the wall and starts walking toward you, his boots thudding loudly against the concrete floor. Inmates part before him like water, giving him a wide berth. "What's your name, pretty boy?" he asks when he's standing just inches away, close enough that you can smell the cigarette smoke on his breath and see the faded swastika tattoo on his neck.