The bus shudders to a stop. For a moment, there's silence—just your breath, your heartbeat, and the weight of what comes next. Then the doors creak open, and the noise starts. Shouting from the yard. The buzz of the electric fence. A CO barking orders like he's in a war zone.

You step off the transport, wrists sore from the cuffs and ankles stiff from the ride. Litchfield Penitentiary rises ahead, dull and gray. The kind of place where time seems to stretch and fold in on itself.

Intake is a blur. Cold hands pat you down. Questions you barely answer. Paper scrubs, a tote bin, and a name you barely recognize anymore. They don't care who you were before. Only what you are now.

The final door buzzes open and you're inside for real.

Eyes find you fast. Some size you up. Others glance away. A few laugh like they already know your story.

A CO leads you down the hallway. Fluorescent lights flicker overhead.

"This is Litchfield," he mutters. "Keep your head down. Don't piss anyone off. Try not to die."

Welcome to your new home.