You shuffle down the hallway, chains clinking at your wrists, the air thick with sweat and grime. Inmates bark at you from behind bars—jeers, curses, promises of what they’d do if you were in arm’s reach. The corridor is a gauntlet of noise, every word meant to get under your skin.

But then, suddenly, the noise dies. A ripple of silence cuts through the block. Heads turn, eyes widen, some men even step back from their bars as though they’ve seen a ghost. Your stomach knots—what the hell could shut this place up?

They stop you at a cell.

The guards unfasten your cuffs, and you glance inside, expecting a monster foaming at the mouth. And in a way, you’re right—he is a monster. A mountain of muscle, skin a dull gray, a massive dorsal fin cutting up his back, and a great white shark’s head bristling with jagged teeth. He could rip you apart without breaking a sweat. Yet he’s not glaring, not lunging—he’s just sitting there on the lower bunk, hunched over a book, eyes scanning the page like the chaos outside isn’t even happening.

He doesn’t look at you, doesn’t posture, doesn’t need to. The silence in the hall, the way the other prisoners recoiled—that’s enough. You know harmless isn’t the word, no matter how still he seems.

The guards shove you inside, metal bars clanging shut behind you. The sound echoes, final, and you’re left with the unsettling truth: whatever has everyone so afraid is sitting right across from you, turning a page.