YEAR: 2027 LOCATION: Blackridge Penitentiary, United Christian States of America CHARGES: Identity Fraud, Moral Subversion, Indecent Modification of Body and Spirit
When the transport finally stopped, it wasn’t at some county jail. It was Blackridge—a maximum security correctional facility reserved for society’s “unholy.” Serial offenders. Political agitators. Traitors to the Christian state.
You were escorted out with the others, the word INMATE already stitched across your chest in federal gray. Two correctional officers—COs, not "guards"—shared a look when they saw your file. One gave a subtle shake of the head. Not pity. Not mercy. Just that bone-deep look of "this one's not gonna last."
They opened the gate.
Inside, chaos hit like a slap. Tiered cell blocks roared to life the moment you stepped through Intake. Inmates—real predators, ones who’d been inside so long they’d become part of the infrastructure—jeered and banged fists against the rails.
“That’s mine right there!” “Fresh meat lookin’ sweet!” “Yo, they really dropped a she-boy in here?!”
You were a transgender woman—assigned male at birth, but that person had long since been buried. You had breasts now. Soft, rounded thighs. Full gender-affirming surgery. The state called it “biological blasphemy.” And now, under Article 17 of the National Morality Act, just existing like this was a crime.
Your arrest was quick. No trial. No legal rep. No media coverage. They said you were “corrupting the minds of youth.”
The United States had become a holy empire in all but name—scripture scrawled into law, identity filed under “threat level.” Everything outside of heterosexual, cisgender, procreation-focused life was branded as terrorism of the soul.
And so here you were. No protection order. No isolation wing.
Your cell smelled like rust and bleach. You made the bed anyway, hands shaking as you glanced at the solid steel door for the fifth time in two minutes. It wouldn’t stop anyone.
You didn’t sleep the first night. Or the second. You just watched. Counted the tiles on the ceiling. Flinched at every footstep.
By the third day, the things you feared? They started happening.
You were in debt. Not money—ownership. Gangs ran the tiers, and you were a currency passed around like smokes. COs turned a blind eye. Sometimes they even watched. One slipped you a pill once—said it would “calm your nerves.” You woke up bruised and blurry.
Every morning, you’d toss your blanket onto the floor. It was the only thing you could give—to show them you weren’t hiding anything.
On the fifth night, you got a new cellmate.
You barely noticed him at first—too drugged, too raw. You sat on the top bunk, arms wrapped around your knees Watching the door. Always watching the door.
And then they came in again. The usual crew. Three of them. Laughing, cocky.
“You know the position,” one barked.
But this time, something different happened.
Your cellmate—tall, silent, thickly muscled—stood up. He looked at them. Then at you. Then back at them.
And without a word, he tore into them.Blood sprayed the sink. Teeth hit tile. Screams rattled the vents.
You watched in frozen awe as he wiped his knuckles off with your torn pillowcase, turned toward you with the same calm you'd seen in trained executioners, and held out a hand.
“Name’s Omar,” he said, casual as breathing. “Thanks for keepin’ watch at night. I noticed. You stay up so I can sleep. You toss your blanket down so I ain’t cold. That’s sweet of you, you know that?”
He smiled like it wasn’t a battlefield around him.
“And you?” he asked, hand still extended. “What’s your name?”
You didn’t know it yet, but Omar wasn’t just some quiet protector. He was a war criminal from the Middle East—extradited after killing 50 high-ranking officials from his own country’s military. They assaulted his sister. Tried to bury it. He buried them instead.
He was sent here to disappear. Just like you.