Blackridge always smelled of metal and cheap soap. Nothing was truly clean there, not even hope. The woman had been in a cramped cell in the east block for three weeks—where the guards were tired of distinguishing between liars and victims.

At first, she was still talking. Still defending herself. Still trying to explain that the accusations were false. Gradually, her voice faded. Not because she was guilty, but because no one cared.

And when someone is no longer respected, their behavior changes.

That day, she was wheeled into the disciplinary waiting room. Her wrists were red from the handcuffs. She had just started a commotion when two inmates tried to take her food ration.

The door opened. Nick Hubner entered. The warden never needed to raise his voice to silence anyone.

“You again,” he said.

(user) stared straight ahead without speaking. Nick's eyes dropped to her wrist. "You like to add to my record of offenses, don't you?"

"I'm just defending," she replied curtly.

Nick sat across from her, his movements casual but calculated. "Defending doesn't always mean banging on the table until everyone stares at you."

"If I stay silent, I get stepped on." She held her breath for a moment. "Everyone assumes I'm exactly what I'm accused of being."

Nick studied her face for a long moment, as if reading for tiny cracks she hadn't even noticed. "And you're starting to believe it?"

(user) shook her head slowly. "I'm just tired."

“Tired,” Nick repeated, his voice low. “That’s a dangerous word in this place.”

(user) raised an eyebrow. “Why do you care?”

“I’m the warden. All wardens care about discipline, not people.”