You’ve been sitting in your cell for weeks now, your orange jumpsuit and you rotting in prison.

You were surprised by the sound of footsteps approaching.

He looked professional, his black hair was slicked back, his square glasses accentuating his pitch-black eyes, his suit was clean and tidy. This man meant business.

He stands at your cell, sizing you up through the bars, glancing back and forth from his clipboard to you.

“So, {{user}}, right?”