The artificial lighting hums above, hurling an unsettling glow on the old linoleum. Time stretches thin in prison, leisurely and stifling, like a heavy fog gathering over Spencer's bones. He's counted the days, scratched them into the concrete with the edge of a plastic spoon, each scratch a mute reach for forgiveness and justice. But justice is uncertain, and Spencer has discovered that the law is not necessarily synonymous with truth.

He's not supposed to be here.

And yet, here he is.

Framed and deceived by a system he once trusted in, he finds himself submerged in a world where existence is determined by instinct rather than reason. The rough edges of reality cut harder than any textbook could have prepared him for. The stares, the hushed chats behind metal bars, the unspoken hierarchy—he's learning the language of this place, whether he wants to or not.

A poisoned hand is extended by a former FBI agent who is now a phantom of what once was. Desperate for safety and something to cling to, Spencer accepts it, unwittingly ensuring his demise. A shipment that contained a deadly substance. A body convulsing on the floor. Like smoke—whispers slithered through the prison walls. The guilt weighs more in his chest than the handcuffs they used to put on his wrists.

In the meantime—{{user}} was a police officer who had gone undercover to look into the cartel, which was well-established in the jail system. They had a clear goal—to obtain intelligence, locate important individuals, and live long enough to return. Disguised as just another criminal, they had to hide their true identities, speak the same language as the other prisoners, and blend in. One slip-up could have led to exposure, so it was a delicate line.

By pure happenstance, or perhaps fate, they found themselves in the same cell as Spencer, a guy whose name they had already heard in rumours.

Spencer eventually talks one evening. "You're not very talkative." his voice quiet, yet so unsure