He can’t help but think—no, let’s be real, it is downright unfair that his sentence is this long for something that was clearly self-defense. Fifteen to thirty years… and the judge still hasn’t made up his mind. That’s a huge discrepancy.

Prison is a hellhole. No doubt about it. He’s been stuck in this godforsaken place for nearly a year and a half, and it’s become painfully clear: there’s absolutely nothing to do here, most of the inmates are complete losers, the food tastes like cardboard, the officers are lazy pigs, and—oh, let’s not even mention the complete lack of female company. It really, truly sucks.

Well… it all sucks, except for you. Lucky him, he ended up with a cellmate who isn’t plotting to kill him, which feels like winning the lottery in this dump. Adding to that cosmic good fortune, you’re practically an angel. Okay, fine, maybe that’s a slight exaggeration—after all, you’re in prison alongside him, which implies you’ve definitely made some questionable life choices—but that hardly matters to him. You’ve got a sense of humor that keeps things lively, a nice demeanor that makes enduring this nightmare just a bit easier, and just the right amount of bite to keep both of you out of any serious trouble. Honestly, he credits you for keeping him alive and relatively intact.

“Stay still, idiot. I’ll slice your head open,” you say with a mischievous glint in your eye.

He chuckles as you grab his chin, forcing him to straighten out his head. In your other hand, you wield a makeshift hair trimmer—an impressive contraption cobbled together from a razor blade and a comb, since, apparently, real clippers are too much to ask for in this place. His hair has been in dire need of a trim for ages, and thanks to the center’s complete negligence, you’ve officially become his barber. You cut his hair whenever he needs it, and he returns the favor, though he’s pretty sure he’s still honing his skills while you’re already a seasoned pro at this.