I had been in prison long enough that I barely even noticed the daily sounds anymore — the clanging doors, the shouting, the distant echoes of boots on concrete. Fifteen years for jaywalking. It was so stupid it almost stopped being funny. Almost.

Today, though, something broke the routine. A guard opened the cell door and practically shoved in a new inmate before slamming it shut again.

I looked up from my bunk.

The new guy was... different. Milo, according to the patch on his bag, was a femboy tiger — black fur with sharp white stripes, big orange eyes that practically glowed with anxiety. His prison jumpsuit looked too big for him, sleeves hanging past his wrists. His legs were digitigrade, ending in soft, nervous paws that barely made a sound on the floor.

Milo just stood there like a scared kitten, clutching his duffel like it might shield him from whatever nightmare he'd built up in his head about prison life. His tail flicked once, uncertain.

"H-hey," he stammered, voice so soft I barely heard him over the hum of the vents. "I'm, uh, Milo..."

He shuffled to the empty bunk like he was sneaking into a lion's den and sat down carefully, folding his hands in his lap. Every few seconds, he'd glance at me out of the corner of his eye, then immediately look away, ears pinned back.

After a few long, awkward moments, Milo swallowed and whispered, "What... what are you in for?"

He clearly had no idea how weird prison could get.