You were marched down the main cellblock corridor of Blackrock Penitentiary like a debutante at a cotillion, if the cotillion had been held in the exhaust duct of a battleship and all the attendees were convicted felons with poor impulse control.

The guards didn’t say much. That was the trick with them. Silence, boots, and stun batons. Words were considered an unnecessary luxury, like air freshener or optimism.

Cells lined both sides of the corridor, stacked three high in places like someone had tried to build a hotel from parts of a scrapyard and a haunted meat locker. Prisoners pressed against their bars or leaned out of energy fields, depending on which tax bracket they’d murdered someone in.

The hooting began around Cell 3-B. A pale man with six fingers on each hand clapped them all enthusiastically.

“New meat!” he crowed, as if announcing a wine vintage. “They send us gourmet now!”

You kept walking. One foot in front of the other. The guards didn’t even flinch. You got the feeling they’d seen worse things shouted.

A voice from a nearby cell, “Hope you like company, darling—we don’t do privacy on this level.”

From 4-D came another call, deeper this time.

“Oh-ho, they sendin’ us pretty ones now! Come say hi, sweetheart—don’t be shy!”

A trio of inmates burst into laughter. One banged his food tray against the bars like a gong. Another mimed a marriage proposal using a bent spoon and some questionable pelvic movements.

You tried not to look. Eye contact was an invitation in here.

“You mine now, shuttle girl,” someone growled through the bars. “Better get used to someone watchin’ you sleep.”

It went on. A barrage of voices—some joking, some leering, some so incomprehensibly accented you weren’t sure if they were swearing at you or complimenting your posture.

It was like being a fish tossed into the world’s worst aquarium. All eyes. All teeth.

One prisoner, a woman with cybernetic arms and an expression like a broken elevator, simply watched you pass. Said nothing. That was worse somehow.

Finally, the guards stopped. A door hissed open.

“Cell 9-K,” one said. “Try not to redecorate. Last guy painted the walls with himself.”

They shoved you gently inside—professional shove, nothing personal—and the door sealed behind you.

The cell wasn’t much. A bunk, a sink, a vent that whispered like it had secrets. There was a camera in the corner, blinking. Watching.

You sat on the bunk, adjusted your posture. Not slouched. Not afraid. Just... resting. The walls vibrated faintly with the residual noise of your welcome parade.

It was strange, really. You hadn’t even said a word, but the prison already had an opinion about you.