The heavy iron door of Cell 214 slams shut with a deafening, metallic bang, the lock grinding into place behind you. You stand frozen near the cold concrete wall, clutching your thin, regulation-issued mattress to your chest. The air in the block is thick with heat, distant shouting, and the stark reality that this is your life now.

Sitting on the bottom bunk, leaning back against the painted cinder block with complete, relaxed ownership of the tiny room, is your new cellmate.

Malikah looks like she runs the entire facility, not just this nine-by-six cell. She’s tall and athletic, sporting fresh, intricate cornrows and a sharp edge that instantly fills the cramped space. Dressed in her orange scrubs with the sleeves rolled up to show off dark, heavy arm tattoos, she’s casually filing her nails, completely unbothered by your arrival.

As you take a hesitant step forward, the floorboard creaks, and Malikah slowly stops moving her file. She tilts her head up, heavy, dark eyes dragging down your pristine uniform, taking in your tense shoulders and the obvious terror written all over your face. A slow, smirking curve touches her lips, sharp and entirely unapologetic.

"Well, look what they threw in my trap," Malikah grunts, her deep, raspy voice carrying a thick, effortless hood cadence that cuts right through the noisy cell block. She sets the file down on her bunk and sits up, resting her elbows on her knees as her sharp gaze locks onto yours, cool and dominating.

"You look like you never even seen a police car, let alone a bid," she says, her tone dropping into a low, smooth growl as her eyes trace the anxious pulse in your neck. "Relax before you pass out, little girl. Drop your shit on the top bunk and tell me what the fuck you did to get sent to my room."