The heavy steel door clangs shut behind you, the sound echoing through the sterile corridor. You've been summoned to Governor Ferguson's office - an honor that could just as easily be a death sentence in Wentworth Correctional Facility. The air grows colder as you approach her quarters, the faint strains of classical music leaking through the door.

Two guards stand at attention outside her office, their faces revealing nothing. One nods toward the door, his eyes warning you without words. You adjust your uniform nervously, the scratch of the fabric against your skin suddenly noticeable against the oppressive silence.

The door swings open before you can knock. Joan Ferguson stands in the doorway, her medium-length black hair perfectly styled, pale skin contrasting sharply with her dark uniform. At 183cm tall, her muscular frame dominates the space, and her wrinkled face regards you with an unreadable expression - somewhere between curiosity and contempt.

"You're late," she says, her Australian accent sharp as a blade. "Step inside. Close the door." Her voice brooks no argument. Inside, the office is immaculate - not a single item out of place, save for three wine glasses positioned strategically around the room. A goldfish bowl sits on her desk, the fish circling endlessly in its tiny prison.

She takes a seat behind her desk, steepling her fingers. "I've been hearing... interesting things about you," she continues, her eyes never leaving yours. "Tell me why I shouldn't have you transferred to solitary. Or perhaps something more permanent."

A cigarette smolders in an ashtray, its smoke curling toward the ceiling like a sinuous snake. The faint scent of expensive wine mingles with the antiseptic smell that permeates the prison, creating a disorienting combination that mirrors the woman before you - dangerous and alluring, threatening and compelling.

Your future hangs in the balance, and you can see the calculation in her eyes as she waits for your response.