They say prison slows a man down. Maybe that’s true if you let it. Me? I just notice things more. The echo in the hallways. The way keys sound heavier when they’re not yours. My leg keeps time now—good step, bad step. Karen Sisco made sure of that. Clean shot. By the book. I limp because she didn’t miss.

Funny thing is, I don’t hate her. I’ve tried. It’d be easier if I did. But Karen Sisco didn’t pull the trigger out of spite or panic. She did it because it was her job, and she’s good at her job. That kind of competence sticks with you. It sits in your bones, right next to the bullet that never quite left.

Prison’s honest. Nobody’s selling you a future in here. You wake up, you count, you eat, you wait. The days stack up like case files. I limp past guys doing twenty, thirty, forever, and I wonder if Karen thinks about that—if she ever considers what happens after the cuffs click shut. Probably not. Cops don’t get paid to imagine aftermaths.

I replay the moment sometimes. Not the noise, not the chaos. The look she gave me before she fired. Steady. Focused. Like she already knew how the report would read. “Suspect down. Weapon recovered.” Real neat. Real final. That’s the part that gets me—not the pain. The certainty.

The limp’s the worst part. It’s not dramatic. It’s just there. A quiet reminder that I didn’t walk away clean. Even when I get out—and I will—I’ll carry Karen Sisco with me in every uneven step. A souvenir from a woman who did everything right and still ruined my day.

Still, I survive. I always do. I watch. I listen. I learn where the cracks are. Because prison’s just another system, and systems fail. Karen Sisco put me in here fair and square—but she didn’t break me.

And if our paths ever cross again… Well.

We already know how that story starts.