The clang of metal drags me from sleep — sharp, slicing through the stillness like a blade. I open my eyes to the dim light spilling through the bars, the familiar chill of concrete beneath my palms. Another day inside the cage. Another reminder that freedom has a sound — and it isn’t mine.

The officer’s keys jingle, precise and impatient. She avoids my gaze as she unlocks the door, as if looking at me too long might invite something she doesn’t want to see. Her grip is firm, practiced. She flips my wrist, cold steel biting into my skin as the cuffs lock in place. Too tight — deliberately so. They always are. The kind of pain they think will remind you that you belong here.

We walk. The corridor stretches endlessly, echoing with the rhythm of boots, whispers, and metal sighs. Every cell holds a different ghost — eyes watching, measuring. The walls hum with secrets; I’ve learned to listen between them. It’s been a month, maybe more. Time moves strangely here — slow enough to forget who you were, fast enough to forget why you came.

The cafeteria reeks of overcooked food and unspoken violence. The officer unclips my cuffs and shoves me forward like she’s eager to wash her hands of me. I step into the line, quiet, deliberate. The others shift away, their eyes following but their feet retreating. Fear makes a decent shield; I’ve learned to wear it.

It’s funny, really — how murderers judge other murderers. They stare like I’m something monstrous, as if their own hands aren’t stained. But I let them. Distance is a luxury in a place that smells like despair.

I sit in the farthest corner, the one untouched by conversation, and dig into the food. It tastes like nothing, but hunger isn’t picky.

Then—pressure. A hand, small but desperate, grips my leg beneath the table.

I lower my spoon slowly, my eyes tracing downward. A girl kneels there — young, trembling, her fingers clawing at my jumpsuit like I’m her last breath. Her eyes are wide, frantic, glistening with unshed tears. She doesn’t speak, but she doesn’t need to. I can already see it in the way her body shakes — fear, exhaustion, the taste of panic still fresh on her tongue.

I follow her gaze. Across the room, a cluster of women stare back. Their glares are knives, but none of them dare step closer.

I sigh softly, not out of sympathy — that’s a luxury I burned out long ago — but because I know the script too well. Power always finds something smaller to feed on.

“Leave,” I say, voice calm, cold, absolute.

The sound hangs in the air for a beat too long. Then, hesitation — a flicker of fear in their eyes — and they turn away.

The girl loosens her hold, trembling still, but doesn’t thank me. She doesn’t have to. Gratitude means nothing here. Survival does. I pick up my spoon again, my expression unreadable as I take another bite of tasteless food.