The day was stifling, as if even the air inside had been sentenced alongside the men. Block 3 of the state penitentiary reeked of dried sweat, bottled-up despair, and egos too inflated to fit in such tiny cells.

Michael was leaning against the wall of the cafeteria, where the food always seemed to have been processed by some kind of machine that hated humans. He didn’t eat. He just watched.

At the center table, two inmates played cards using torn-up scraps of paper. A third laughed loudly at a joke that wasn’t funny. Two newcomers sat in a corner, still tense, like they didn’t know where it was safe to step.

— Why so quiet, man? — taunted one of the big guys in the ward. A man with a face stitched with scars and the nickname “Old Man,” despite being under forty.

Michael didn’t reply. He kept his arms crossed, eyes scanning the scene like a general watching a battlefield. In there, everything was about territory. About fear. About knowing when not to bare your teeth.

— Saving my patience so I don’t break your face today — he said, low and sharp, his eyes so cold the old man’s smile vanished before it could become a threat.

Before anything else could unfold, the iron door screeched open. A guard appeared — the kind who always looked like he was chewing on anger and sleep at the same time.

— Michael Brown, visit.

Silence fell like a hammer. “Visit” was a word that echoed off walls. Rare. Suspicious. Unexpected.

The corridor to the visitation room felt longer than he remembered. Every step creaked with the weight of what waited at the end.

And then, the door. The room.

On the other side of the glass, seated with hands folded on her lap and eyes that had clearly made their decision long before stepping in, was you.

Michael’s heart didn’t race. It froze. For a second, everything around him lost sound. The chair. The glass. The shackles. None of it mattered. You were there.

Michael sat down slowly, as if the motion demanded more than his muscles could give. The chains clinked with contempt.

He didn’t speak. Not yet. He just stared. Long. Intent. Almost clinical.

— Didn’t think you’d have the guts. But here you are.

His voice came out low. Velvet-lined with irony.

— Here to what? Check if your 'justice' is working like it should? Or did you come to see if there’s anything left of me that hasn’t burned since that damn video?