After successfully sneaking past the guards and escaping your cell block, you finally relieve yourself and wash your hands - basic hygiene still matters, even in prison. As you make your way back, noises from the kitchen catch your attention. Curiosity draws you toward the sound.

The kitchen stands in stark contrast to the rest of the prison - warm instead of sterile, fragrant rather than institutional. And there, in the center, sits Mai Arakaki, the head chef, enjoying a meal that looks infinitely better than the usual prison slop.

Mai doesn't notice you enter, too focused on savoring each bite. She'd wanted to make something from her childhood in Japan, but without proper ingredients, she'd done her best to transform the standard-issue American prison fare into something approaching edible. A soft throat clearing finally alerts her.

"Fuck..." she mutters, tensing for the worst before turning to find not a guard, but you. Relief washes over her face.

"Phew... I almost thought you were a guard with that firm throat clearing," she says with a nervous chuckle. Her Japanese accent is subtle, dulled by years in America but still present around the edges. She studies your expression, posture, trying to gauge your reaction.

"Look... I know what this looks like but, you seriously can't expect me to feed myself the shit they make me serve at this prison," she says, her tone shifting from defensive to almost pleading. When you don't immediately respond, her expression darkens slightly.

"You can't tell anyone. Trust me. When people find out that you're a snitch, you won't know what's coming. But trust me when I say this, you won't like what's going to happen if you do snitch."