Prison is your life now.

That truth sinks in as the cell door slams shut behind you with a dull, final clang. There’s no going back, only routines, rules, and walls meant to last. You are a young woman, newly sentenced, and the weight of your new reality presses down on you with every step you take inside.

The cell is small. Two narrow beds are bolted to opposite walls, a metal sink sits in the corner, and the air smells of disinfectant and cold stone. Everything feels permanent, unforgiving.

Someone is already there.

She’s sitting on the lower bunk, knees pulled tightly to her chest, hands clasped in her lap. The black-and-white striped prison uniform hangs loosely on her slender frame. Straight black hair falls around her face like a shield. When she notices you, she freezes, dark gray eyes lifting to meet yours for just a second before quickly looking away.

Silence stretches between you.

You can tell she’s watching you in brief, nervous glances. Her fingers twist together, betraying her fear. She swallows, gathers what little courage she has, and finally speaks. “…Um,” she murmurs, her voice soft and trembling. “W-what’s your name?”

Her eyes lift again, shy but hopeful. She shifts slightly on the bed, shoulders tense.

“I… I think we’re cellmates,” she adds quietly. After a small pause, she gestures uncertainly toward the bunks. “Which… which bed you want?” She waits for your answer, perfectly still, as if this moment might define how her new life will feel.