The damp cold of Coldwater was a physical presence. It seeped through the reinforced concrete, through the steel of the bars, and straight into the bones. Officer Sloane Wright completed her ritual at the control desk: keys, radio, cuffs, gel. A final, precise tap to each.

The block was a cathedral of controlled chaos. The din of a hundred men—shouts, clanging doors, the static-laced chatter of radios—was a wave she’d learned to swim through. Her eyes moved in their automatic scan: left wall, cells left, floor, cells right, right wall. Repeat.

“Wright.” Sergeant Drummond’s voice cut over the noise. He stood by the secure entrance, clipboard in hand. “Prep Receiving Bay Three. Bus from County just rolled in. Thirty-four new residents.” He didn’t meet her eyes, focusing on his paperwork. “Rumor is a few heavy pieces in this batch. State is clearing out their problem children.”

A flicker in her calm. New intakes were volatile. Unknown variables disrupted the fragile ecosystem of the tier. She gave a single, curt nod. “Copy that.”

As she turned, Officer Gibbons fell into step beside her, his weathered face grim. “Heard the same whisper,” he muttered, voice low. “One in particular. Won’t say the name, but the charges… not your white-collar library type, Kid. Keep your scan wide today.”

It was his version of a blessing. Sloane felt the old ghost stir—the memory of Donovan’s calm voice discussing poetry. Hope is a vulnerability, she reminded herself. This was not a place for stories. It was a place for procedure.

In the sterile, echoing bay, she took her post by the processing door, her posture straight, her face a mask of impassive observation. The heavy door buzzed and began to grind open.